


The Castle of Dreams

by noodlecatposts



Series: ACOTAR AU Week 2019 [7]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Based on a Tumblr Post, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/F, F/M, Hello Halmark Story, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), feysand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21796405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: Feyre wasn’t sure how she landed herself in some modern-day fairytale, but here she was, serving as a tutor for an actual princess.Inspired by the prompt: “Sire, please stop flirting with me in front of your potential suitors. It’s making it very hard for you to get married.” “Yeah, that’s the point.”Posted for ACOTAR AU Week, Day 7: Free (Royalty) AU
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Morrigan, Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron & Saoirse, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: ACOTAR AU Week 2019 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568818
Comments: 227
Kudos: 490
Collections: ACOTAR AU Week





	1. PART ONE

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, this is written for ACOTAR AU Week, but it turned into a little monster so I will be posting in it parts? I have no self-restraint. Enjoy!

**PART ONE**

Feyre wasn’t sure how she landed herself in some modern-day fairytale, but here she was, serving as a tutor for an _actual princess_.

It was just—she’d been so desperate to escape her current life that Feyre hadn’t thought twice about applying for some arts tutor job abroad that promised the two things she desired most in this world: freedom and art.

Was Feyre qualified to teach some kid, some princess, about art? She wasn’t really sure herself, but Feyre had a bachelors, paid for in her blood, sweat, and tears, and she had experience tricking the small children at the youth center into arts and crafts time. So, she applied, and Feyre went through the interview process, charade though it might have been.

Imagine her horror when one Morrigan Verity of Prythian called her and offered her the job.

 _You must have gotten something wrong_ , Feyre told the women, confused and little delirious. The call had come in at 3 AM. She thought someone had died.

 _Is this Feyre Archeron? From the United States—shit._ The swear word was soft, muffled like the woman on the phone was trying to hide it. _It’s, like, the middle of the night there right now, isn’t it?_

 _Only kind of._ Feyre mumbled, but she was awake now.

 _Fuck!_ Again, a muffled swear that made Feyre smile. _I can call back. I’ll call back._

Feyre sputtered; if the woman let her go, Feyre would be up the rest of the night anyway, wondering what this Morrigan had to say. _No, it’s okay._

And that was that. Feyre ditched her shitty New York apartment and moved across the world, taking with her only what could fit in her suitcase and the two boxes she’d send overseas. She didn’t have much she wanted to keep, but there was plenty to forget.

***

Feyre arrives, jetlagged and wrinkled to a literal castle in the sky. She wishes she’d been smarter, packed a change of clothes to change into at the airport like a celebrity. Instead, the new tutor arrives in a pair of jeans and a sweater, her puffy, worn green coat. She was in desperate need of a new one, but she’d been putting it off. That would have to change, living smack dab on a mountain top.

She idles at the entryway where the driver left her, stealing away with all her belongings. Feyre doesn’t know where to go; she can’t just wander around someone’s home—a fucking palace of all things—without supervision. Or at least without permission.

“You must be Feyre!” Some calls from the top rails of the double staircase. The beautiful blonde that Feyre remembers from her interviews sweeps down the stairs like, well, royalty, but if Feyre remembers correctly, she’s a secretary of sorts. Well, it’s definitely more important than that, but Feyre hasn’t figured any of that out yet. She’ll probably need to.

“Nice to meet you—in person,” Feyre tells Morrigan, offering her hand, but the woman surprises her and sweeps her into a hug. It seems wrong, but it’s also very, very nice.

“Ah, I’m so excited to meet you!” Morrigan cries. “As you know, my name is Morrigan, but if you call me that I’ll have to let you go. The correct title is Your Serene Majesty.”

Feyre gapes at her, mind reeling. Had she been interviewing with the _actual_ ruler of this country all along? Wait that couldn’t be right. She’d googled the family, and the woman before her looked nothing like the family of dark hair and blue eyes Feyre had found.

Morrigan cackles, tossing her head back. “Kidding. I go by Mor—and _that_ is an order.”

“I, uh, okay,” Feyre stammers. _Mor_ is not what she expected.

“Nuala,” Mor summons a wraith-like woman from seemingly nowhere, but Nuala has a kind, if wry, smile. “Can you show Feyre to her room?”

“Of course,” Nuala says, her voice nothing but a whisper. “Follow me.”

***

The first time Feyre meets her new tutor is strained, to say the least. The troublesome girl gives her one look and then ignores her for the remainder of their period together. It was nearly time for the Winter Solstice break, Feyre supposed. The only reason Feyre was here, so early, was because the royal family desired someone to keep the Princess company for the next few days. A modern-day governess. Feyre was apparently the youngest of her tutors for the princess, and she was the only female. A perfect match, they'd said.

So, Feyre went to Prythian early, not minding on missing Christmas dinner with her family. Things never went well at an Archeron gathering.

“Princess Saoirse,” Cerridwen was even softer spoken than her counterpart, Nuala, her twin. “I’d like to introduce you to your newest tutor, Feyre Archeron.”

“I have enough tutors,” the Princess spat from her perch in a bay window, overlooking the groves of evergreens covered in snow blankets. It was a regular Winter Wonderland out there. “What could I possibly need another for?”

Cerridwen blanches at the acid in Princess Saoirse’s tone, and Feyre hesitates to say anything. This may not be the easy job she thought it would be, after all. It looked as if she might not be the kind and gentle princess, the kind depicted in all those Disney movies.

“Art, Your Highness,” Cerridwen says, shooting Feyre a look. _Introduce yourself._

Princess Saoirse scoffs, but Feyre merely clears her throat and greets her charge. “Nice to meet you, Your Highness.”

The princess turns her icy blue eyes on Feyre, undisguised hate in them. The twelve-year-old looks her up and down without a word; then, she turns that angry glare back to the frosted windowpanes. The heat in them could melt the glass.

“You both may go,” Princess Saoirse says. It’s not a suggestion.

***

Feyre tries daily to get the girl to open up, but it appears to be of no avail. Mor told her the Princess was struggling, trying to adapt to her new life and to cope with the sudden and unexpected loss of her parents. The dark look in Mor’s chocolate eyes tells Feyre that the little girl isn’t the only one; in fact, it would appear that the whole castle, thin though the staff may be, is in mourning. Everyone floats around like ghosts, going about their daily to-do’s.

Except for Princess Saoirse, who stares numbly out the study window, day after day. Feyre takes to sitting in the room with her, silent but there. Technically, the princess is on vacation and doesn’t need to worry about her studies. But Feyre doesn’t see a little girl on vacation when she braves to sneak a glance at her young charge; she sees herself twenty years ago, grieving the loss of her own parents. One dead, and the other just—never the same.

***

The Castle of Dreams, that’s the name of the place Feyre is living at now. Rather that’s the English translation for whatever it is that Nuala said when she asked. Feyre likes that name, finds that the title hits her somewhere deep. Especially so when the snow flurries began on a soft, dreamy morning.

“Get up,” Feyre tells Princess Saoirse, pulling back the fluffy pink covers draped over the little girl. She might be crossing a line here, some unspoken rule that you aren't supposed to break into a princess's room and frighten her awake, drag her out of the bed before dawn. Yet, Feyre has an idea, a plan, and she needs Saoirse to get up for it to work.

Her charge bolts awake, murder in her eyes, and a few unkind words spilling from her lips.

“That’s not very ladylike,” Feyre tells the girl, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I thought Princesses were supposed to be ladylike, what with all the etiquette training and shit.”

Princess Saoirse arches a brow, glaring. Feyre’s grin breaks completely lose.

“I am not a Princess,” she explains away her own language. “Much less a lady.”

“I’ll say,” the girl agrees, her voice lilting. Most of the other residents of the castle don’t have much of an accent, but Mor tells Feyre that the princess spent more than her fair share of time with her mother in her home country.

Feyre begins to dig into the child’s closet, which is bigger than the apartment she left behind in NYC. She tosses out random items that she finds that would be essential: a warm sweater, a heavy coat, scarves—

“ _What_ are you doing?” Princess Saoirse growls at her. The scowl on her face crumples when Feyre tosses a mitten in her direction, and it hits her square in the face. “You can’t just come into people’s rooms, and, and—"

“I’m trying to make sure you don’t freeze to death,” Feyre tells the girl, matter of factly. “It’s fucking freezing outside, and I’ll probably get fired if you die. If I don’t get fired for my language first.” She winks for good measure.

“Outside?” The princess scoffs. “Why on Earth would we go outside?”

“Fine then,” Feyre shrugs one shoulder, turns to leave. “Suit yourself.”

Feyre barely clears the door before the princess calls after her to wait. The tutor lingers in the hallway, pretending to not have heard her charge. For a few moments, all she hears are scuffling sounds and curses of someone getting ready much too quickly, and then Princess Saoirse sweeps out of her bedroom like a bat out of hell, darting past her tutor without realizing it.

Feyre grins in victory, coming up behind the princess to tuck a tag back into her coat, fixing the collar. Princess Saoirse twirls in surprise, glares.

“Took you long enough,” Feyre tells her, leaving for the front doors without explanation.

“Yeah, well, a princess is never late; you’re just early,” her charge tells her, and Feyre beams.

***

Morrigan wakes up to the sounds of squealing and laughter that morning. In a confused haze, she stumbles out of her warm bed to see what all the fuss is about; imagine her surprise, when what she finds is, of all things, her littlest cousin running around the courtyard, screaming like a banshee in pure delight as she takes a snowball to the face.

Saoirse hasn’t laughed like that in ages. Mor was beginning to wonder if the young girl would ever smile again. She watches as the new, young tutor gives chase after her charge, wrapping her arms around the princess’s slight frame and spinning her around in a circle, legs flailing out in front of Saoirse like ribbons.

Saoirse squeals and Feyre laughs, the sound like bells.

Morrigan takes a picture of the duo with her phone, sends it away in a text message to a contact marked with nothing but a crown. He thought it was funniest that way. For him to call, and that be all that popped up. In between pretending to be annoyed, Mor found it funny too.

 **Well, I’ll be damned.** Rhys replies. **Is that my sister?**

Mor smiles. **When does your flight land?**

Rhys responds immediately. **We’re sitting on the tarmac, landed just before the snow hit. See you soon, cousin.**

***

Princess Saoirse is hell on wheels. Feyre kind of loves her.

By the time Feyre coaxes the princess back inside, Saoirse’s smile is so full it might break her face. Feyre is thrilled to finally find something in her charge’s expression other than the scowl that’s been marring it since long before Feyre’s arrival. Snow flecks the girl’s hair, hat having long disappeared, and Feyre can’t help but tug the princess’s scarf a little tighter on her, to make sure she stays warm.

Together, they sneak into the kitchen in the fading daylight, and they make themselves some hot chocolate. The princess talks to her animatedly now, her voice so quick that Feyre almost gets lost in the accent. Saoirse recaps a time when someone named Cassian tried to make the warm beverage, but through a combination of ineptitude and lack of attention, he managed to set fire to the stovetop and put the kitchen out of service for a month.

“Well,” Feyre tells her, turning down the heat that warms the pot of milk. “Let’s not do that, shall we?”

Her charge nods in agreement, and then she _screams_.

Feyre launches into the air in surprise, spoon flying out of the pot and spilling some of the milk. A burst of deep, rich laughter fills the air, accompanied by Saoirse’s run-on sentences.

“Should’ve known I’d find you lurking in the kitchen,” someone says with fondness. The princess scoffs, and Feyre turns just in time to see the King of Prythian ruffle his sister’s hair.

“Hey, I’m not the only one who’s been caught down here for a midnight sweet,” Saoirse accuses, poking her brother with a finger. “If I recall correctly, you used to wake _me_ up to keep _you_ company.”

The king laughs, “As if you were actually asleep, you little faker.”

Feyre manages not to openly gape at the royal siblings. She’s seen them both before, during her extensive google search on them; Feyre had been trying to decide if a job posting for a _Royal Arts Tutor to the Princess of Prythian_ was a scam or not. She’s still not confident that it isn’t.

Where Saoirse’s eyes are an icy, light blue, the King of Prythian’s eyes are the color of the ocean deep, nearly violet even. Feyre knew he was attractive, abstractly and only via the photos she'd ever seen of him both online and in picture frames, but it's much different to see him in person. Feyre is struck with the ridiculous notion to curtsey at him, but she’s American, so she knows she’s butchered it. He smiles, anyway, charmed.

“And you must be the dreaded tutor,” he tells her, ominous, offering his hand to her instead. Feyre takes it carefully, trying to pretend away the blush that’s consumed her. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Don’t worry; not all of it was bad. Mor, at least, had a few nice things to say.”

Feyre gapes, and Princess Saoirse has the decency to look embarrassed. She sends her tutor an apologetic smile. It’s not wholly unexpected; until today, the princess could hardly be bothered to stay in the same room with her, much less have anything to say.

“Your Majesty, I,” Feyre begins, but she doesn’t know what to say to defend herself. It hardly seems like the place.

The king holds up a hand to stop her anyway. “No worries. But do call me Rhys,” his eyes sparkle. “I don’t know what to do when people call me _Your Majesty_.” He wrinkles his nose; Feyre finds the gesture disarmingly attractive.

“Feyre, we’re going to curdle the milk,” the princess chimes in from the stove, looking as lost as a fish on dry land.

“Oh, shit,” Feyre curses under her breath, blushing when she realizes her mistake. She turns her wide eyes on, King—Rhys, but the man is just smiling fondly. The look is so soft and gentle that Feyre feels the need to look away, mumbles an apology.

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” Rhys tells her, but he isn't looking at her. Instead, his expression is locked onto his sister’s happy smile, mirrored by his own. “I’ll grab the cinnamon,” he declares, wandering away to dig through the cabinets.

***

“Today is your _birthday?”_ Mor practically screeches. Saoirse’s head snaps up at her cousin’s tone, drifting towards a shell-shocked Feyre. Feyre offers a weak smile.

“Kind of?” She says, uncertain, fearing the consequences.

“ _Kind of?”_ Another screech. “How could you? Why didn’t you? We should have?”

“It’s easier to converse with someone if they complete all their sentences, Mor,” Saoirse drawls from her desk, voice so reminiscent of her brother's. It's hard to believe she's only twelve. When her cousin glares at her, the princess just smiles ruthlessly.

“It’s not a big deal,” Feyre tells them, assuring and maybe a little pleading. “The Solstice celebrations begin tomorrow, anyway. I don’t need anything special.”

Mor turns to Feyre. “You shouldn’t be working! You should be out, having fun, exploring the city nearby! We could have made you dinner—we could still make you dinner. I have to go!”

In a flourish of red skirts, the blonde spins on her heels and vanishes. Feyre shares a look with Saoirse, who smiles knowingly.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” Feyre asks her charge, who nods solemnly.

***

“I hear its someone’s birthday,” purrs behind Feyre, later that day. It’s just after lunch, and the princess has slipped away to do whatever it is that twelve-year-olds do when they’re royal and cooped up in a castle in the mountains. Feyre let her go without complaint; she’s happy to see Saoirse not staring out of windows as often. She’d rather her get into trouble for stealing cookies from Rita, the royal chef.

Feyre looks up with a scowl. She’s the kind of person that dreads birthdays, if only for the fact that everyone feels such a need to make a big deal out of it, to point it out to everyone else, to keep wishing her _happy birthday_.

Bright violet eyes sparkle at her annoyance. “Well, I see that someone’s not in the birthday spirit.”

Feyre scoffs, glances back to her sketch. Maybe if she ignores him, the royal king of Prythian will go away and leave her be. She isn’t so lucky; the distinct scrape of a chair across hardwood floors makes her look back up. Rhys smiles.

“There’s no need to fuss,” Feyre grumbles, trying to place her arms just so across the sketch pad so that he cannot see her work. Rhys notices the gesture; she knows he does, but the king doesn’t say anything. He leans back into his chair, tipping the front legs off the ground in carelessness.

“Birthdays were invented for fussing,” Rhys tells her. Feyre wonders what the people of Prythian would think, to see their new, young king performing a balancing act in a chair that’s probably like a century old, with his feet propped up on an equally old table.

“They’re an excuse to get pampered and eat too much birthday cake and get presents. Don’t you like presents, Feyre Darling?” Rhys purrs again, returning the chair to its correct position and leaning towards her. He’s started calling her that lately, in a teasingly smooth voice; Feyre thinks it’s because he likes to see her embarrassed.

Feyre sits up to avoid him, revealing her sketch. The king’s eyes immediately drop to the paper between them, widening with a mixture of surprise and wonder. The woman makes to yank the pad away, snap it closed and hide away her talent, but Rhys stops her gently, pulls the drawing away from her white-knuckled grip with delicacy.

She’s drawn the Castle of Dreams from a nearby perch overlooking the castle. It took hours to hike up through the frosty forest, but the Princess had been elated for the opportunity to go outside in the snow again. At some point, the staff and Saoirse's family forgot that the princess is just a child; a child that needs to go outside and cause trouble and be free.

Her bodyguard, Azriel, practically launched himself from the shadows to stop them from leaving, but one look at Saoirse’s pleading eyes had the quiet, lethal man hiking up the trail alongside them. The view was utterly worth his frowns.

“I know it’s terrible,” Feyre stammers. “The shadows are all wrong, and I can’t remember _exactly_ the layout of the mountains, but—”

“No,” Rhys breathes. “No, Feyre. This is incredible.”

He looks up at her with newfound consideration, eyes burning with something Feyre can’t place. She averts her eyes, stares at her stained hands. “You’re so talented.”

Feyre scoffs, raises a brow in his direction. “Well, I certainly hope so,” she feigns the confidence for the sake of the joke. “You did hire me to teach your sister art, after all.”

The King of Prythian just waves her off. “Anyone can _teach_. Not everyone can, can _create_ like this. Put pencil to paper and—capture something’s soul.”

The words have Feyre flushing to the tips of her ears, and she thinks that His Majesty likes her reaction to that more than anything else in this conversation. Rhys looks thoughtfully at the sketch for another moment, and then he passes it to her.

“I have to go,” he tells her vaguely, regretfully. “See you tonight at dinner, Feyre Darling.”

***

Mor is positively furious when Ianthe appears a day early, crashing the carefully planned last-minute birthday celebration for Feyre. Mor worked so hard all day to piece together something worthy of the shining light in their lives that was Feyre. And Ianthe was going to _ruin it._

“How could you let that, that _woman_ into the castle for _Solstice?_ ” Mor asks, smacking Rhys upside the head. She could be charged with treason for that, but it’d be worth it. She'd take that walk to the noose with satisfaction.

Rhys levels his cousin with a glare. “No one lets Ianthe _do_ anything. She just _does shit._ ”

Mor growls at him, reaching for another hit, but her cousin snatches at her wrist. “Hitting people isn’t nice, Morrigan.”

“Neither is ruining a birthday dinner!” Mor cries, put out. “Tell her to go away. Tell her to go stay downhill at the inn, or hell, I don’t know—make her sleep in her car! But don’t let her stay _here_.”

Rhys pockets his hands; it tells Morrigan that he’s nervous and trying to hide it. The King learned that move from his own father. _Never show your hand._ The prior sovereign meant not to show one’s emotions, but it worked quite literally, as well.

“I don’t have a choice, Mor,” Rhysand Velaris tells her in a small voice. “They’re all going to be staying here.”

“What?” Mor cries. They never let _anyone_ stay in the Castle of Dreams; it’s their safe house, their sanctuary. Their home. “Who’s coming to stay?”

Rhys sighs, gives her a regretful smile. “My suitors.”


	2. PART TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king is getting married. Because he has to.  
> Maybe, they should’ve included that in the job description. Or at least mentioned it in the interviews.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s part two! Thank you all for your feedback! I CANNOT believe how this one took off; I felt so silly writing it. I guess we all love a good trope. ;) Uh, this is not the last part... I will write until I find the end. Enjoy! :)

**PART TWO**

“What the fuck do you mean? _Suitors!?_ ” Feyre hears Mor screech. The sound of someone hushing her follows quickly. Feyre’s hand drops from where it was hovering, just above the doorknob to the sitting room.

It was where they were all meeting before dinner, said Mor. Feyre didn’t think she was early, but then again, time was a little ambiguous in this place. They usually just kept to whatever loose schedule that was needed; a stricter one was provided in the event of some press schedule or what have you. But today wasn’t one of those days.

“Are you thinking of running away?” Azriel’s soft baritone comes from behind her. Feyre shoots him a guilty smile.

“Is it that obvious?” She asks him in a whisper.

“It’s okay; I don’t blame you,” those honey eyes glance towards the cracked open door, listening to the incoherent whispers inside. “We can be a lot to handle sometimes.”

“Absolutely,” Feyre agrees. “You’re the worst of them all,” she teases, and Azriel raises a brow, curious. “Always shouting and stomping about.”

The ghost of a smile. “I’ll try to be quieter in the future.”

“Now, what are you two getting on about?” Cassian barks from the end of the hall. Saoirse follows along, her fingers linked with his. Cassian is the head of royal security; he’s also Rhys’ personal guard. Not that the king has just one.

“We were planning to run away together,” Feyre quips. Azriel looks surprised, but his eyes shine with amusement. Saoirse narrows her eyes; she might have the slightest hint of a crush on her silent bodyguard. Fifteen-year age gap, be damned.

“That’s right. You’ve caught us,” Azriel plays along, a sly smile tugging at his lips. Feyre thinks it’s a good look for him. “Feyre and I have been involved in a secret romance for weeks now. It’s time you all knew: we’re in love.”

“Well, I thank you for sharing, Azriel,” a familiar voice purrs from behind them, making the duo jump. “Although, I wish the two of you had given me at least a little prior notice. It is so hard to find good help these days.”

Azriel flushes, which only makes the rest of the group burst into laughter. Even Saoirse grins. Feyre finds herself looking to Rhys while she laughs, wanting to share her joy with him; she finds him already looking at her.

“Oh, great!” A high voice interrupts the happiness. “We’re all here. I’m _starving_.”

The light in the room goes out, like the drawing of a curtain. Feyre watches as Rhys’ eyes, usually so full of warmth and humor, go cold; a muscle in his jaw flickers before he speaks.

“Ianthe, nice of you to join us.” The voice that speaks those words isn’t Rhys, isn’t the man that Feyre’s come to know in between run-ins in the hallways and updates on Saoirse. The voice that speaks is that of the king, King Rhysand Velaris of Prythian. The First if you were feeling particular.

Cassian looks like he’s waiting for the punch line, and Morrigan’s eyes are dark with hatred, a look that Feyre prays is never aimed in her direction. Saoirse is the only one bold enough to meet Ianthe’s smile with one of her own, and it’s a bitter, cruel thing, beaten into her from hours of practicing walking with books balanced on her head and days spent smiling to strangers at garden parties.

Feyre makes a mental note to never get on the wrong side of the princess, either. She might be meaner than anyone else here.

For a moment, everyone stares at one another, waiting. Then, at last, Nuala floats into the hall. She’s clearly confused to find everyone outside of the drawing-room, standing around like fools.

“Dinner is ready, Your Majesty.”

***

Feyre’s birthday dinner is spent with side glances and stilted conversation. Ianthe is beautiful, poised, and well accomplished. A man would be crazy not to want to marry her, to not want her by their side as queen.

But Rhys wants nothing to do with Ianthe.

The woman’s beauty is artificial, created by layers of makeup and hairspray; she’s too poised, too perfect, and Ianthe’s accomplishments are the types of things one does to be able to _say_ they do them.

She’s not genuine; Rhys isn’t sure that she’s real. And she doesn’t even begin to compare to the adorable creature sitting down the table, wearing a dented, cone-shaped birthday hat and sharing secrets with his sister.

“The palace is just beautiful this time of year,” Ianthe tells the table. Rhys clenches his teeth to avoid rolling his eyes.

“Yes,” he agrees because he has too. Yet, Rhys watches his wine as he swirls it instead of looking at her.

He looks up when Feyre snorts at something Azriel whispers at the end of the table. It reminds him of the irrational jealousy he felt as Feyre and Azriel jested about running away together, about being in love. At least they get to make that call.

“Although, I really think a Summer wedding is the way to go,” Ianthe’s soprano continues, loud and conspicuous. Rhys stops breathing.

The conversations die. Even the twins, pause mid-step; Nuala is about to overpour Mor’s refill of wine. Cerridwen is ashen.

“I didn’t know you were getting married, Ianthe,” Azriel’s lack of expression tells Rhys everything he needs to know, and Cassian looks somber in a way that Rhys finds disturbing.

“Oh, I’m not! Well, I could be!” The peppy blonde winks in his direction, and Rhys considers the pros and cons of just dying on the spot.

Con? Saoirse would make a mean little queen, and Mor as her regent would be a force to be reckoned with. Pro? Rhys wouldn’t have to marry anyone, much less Ianthe and her fake smiles.

“What?” Saoirse vibrates in her chair, fists clenched under the table and in her skirts, the way her governess Madja taught her.

“Wedding?” Feyre asks, cautiously. She’s the only one willing to look Rhys in the eye. Those grey orbs of hers churn with the desire to know all the answers. He likes that about her, that quest for knowledge. Even for trivial things, like kitchen gossip and the answer to the last question on the crossword puzzle.

“Who’s getting married?” The tutor asks.

Ianthe’s smile is too perfect, practiced. She could be posing for her school portrait for all he could tell. “Why, Rhys is, of course!”

“I didn’t know you were getting married, Rhys,” Feyre says, eyeing the room and taking note of the mood. “How… long have you two been engaged?”

Is that disappointment in her eyes? Or is Rhys simply willing something to be there that isn’t?

Morrigan turns her fiery gaze on him, and he swallows. “Tell them, Rhys.”

***

Feyre finds herself, once again, praying that she never finds herself under Mor’s scrutiny. Rhys practically wilts like a flower under the heat of her glare, and he’s her cousin, the king of her country.

Ianthe looks scandalized to have dropped such a bombshell at dinner; Feyre is highly suspicious of the honesty of that expression. It’s just a feeling.

“Um,” Rhys begins, ineloquent. It betrays the truth of the situation, for Rhys to be so frazzled. “As you all know, as the sovereign ruler, it’s my job to get married, produce an heir.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cassian waves him off, missing the gravity of the moment. “Such a hard life for a poor king.”

“Shut up, Cass,” Morrigan hisses.

“Right, well,” Rhys tells the table. He meets Feyre’s eye for a brief second, apologies shine in them. He must be upset to have ruined her birthday dinner, the dinner that Mor worked so hard for. “Apparently, there’s a timeline… And certain requirements.”

When the table remains silent, Rhys resumes his explanation, but Ianthe beats him to it. Her voice is even higher than usual with excitement, practically a screech.

“It has to be someone of noble birth!” The blonde exclaims like this is the most exciting thing to have ever happened. “Someone who has something to bring to the table, like an alliance with another nation or ties to some notable deed or what have you or—”

“Someone with overflowing coffers?” Morrigan suggests. Her smile is kind, but her eyes or not. It’s become perfectly clear what Mor thinks of their unexpected guest—of the whole situation.

Feyre swallows but can’t think of anything to say. “Oh.”

“What are we? Living in the 16th century?” Saoirse hisses, eyes burning. Feyre reaches out to touch the girl’s arm, to try and soothe her, but the princess shrugs her off, slamming her fists to the table. “Are you going to marry me off next? To some prince of Vallahan or something?”

“Don’t be silly, Sersh,” Rhys tells his little sister. Feyre knows he's about to make light of things; she wishes he wouldn’t. It won’t end well. “There’s no prince of Vallahan, but there is a princess—she might be too old for you, though, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

Feyre flinches as the princess growls, flushes with embarrassment at the joke or anger or both. The twelve-year-old slams her fist to the table, releasing her temper. Everyone watches as she runs away, skirts, and inky dark hair flying behind her.

“Uh, excuse me,” Feyre tells the table, placing down her napkin. She chases after the princess. Feyre would prefer getting a door slammed in her face over spending another second at that heated table.

***

“Saoirse,” Feyre tries for the thousandth time that evening. “Let me in. We can talk it out.”

No response. Feyre sighs; they were doing so well up until now. The young princess had started to come out of her shell; she’d been smiling, laughing—enjoying life again. She’d started to talk to Feyre, to open up. The tutor hoped she wouldn’t shut down now.

Feyre leans her head against the door with a thud of defeat. She doesn’t want to walk away, doesn’t want the little girl to feel like she’s been abandoned. Feyre wishes someone had been there outside her door when she finally crept out, teary-eyed and red-nosed. There hadn’t been anyone; they’d all left, off to do their own thing.

The doorknob creaks a second before Feyre lifts her head up, just narrowly misses toppling to the hardwood floors without the door there to hold her up. She looks down at the pistol of a girl in front of her, meets the child’s icy stare. Saoirse looks _pissed_.

“This is bullshit!” The princess swears, accent thick; her loud voice echoes down the hallway, and Feyre winces.

“Hey now,” Feyre tells her mock stern. “I’m pretty sure I have to chastise you when you curse, and I’m kind of afraid of you right now. So, what if you don’t?”

“You’re the worst adult _ever_ ,” Saoirse snorts emphatically. Rage temporarily forgotten.

“I’ve never claimed otherwise. Just ask my sisters,” Feyre beams at the little girl. She’s satisfied when the princess allows for the hint of a smile.

“I’m going to remember you admitted to being afraid of me,” Princess Saoirse tells Feyre, holding the door open for her to pass by.

Feyre nods and enters the princess’s suite. “I would expect nothing less of you.”

***

Feyre allows her ward to bitch and moan to her for the remainder of the evening. Like the princess she is, Saoirse orders hot chocolate up to the room, and a maid named Alis hand delivers the beverages. They drink them until they are sick, and Feyre hangs out in the suite with Saoirse until the preteen drifts off to sleep, worn out from her ranting.

Before Feyre heads back to her room, she leaves behind a silly doodle of herself, saying, “Language, Your Highness!”

Maybe, they’ll tape it to the projector screen back in the classroom. As a reminder for them both.

***

Feyre Archeron is confused later that night when an almost entirely silent knock raps against her door. It happens once, and Feyre ignores it. She’s from New York; Feyre doesn’t answer the door unless she’s expecting someone.

Then there’s a second knock, a little more earnest. Feyre checks the time; it’s nearly midnight. Nothing good is going to come out of opening her door right now.

Then there’s the third knock. Feyre's light is on, and whoever it is can likely see so, through the space under the door.

“Feyre,” someone whispers. “Mother, I hope you’re still awake.”

Unable to resist any longer, Feyre clambers out of her bed. She lives in a wing separate from the family and, thankfully, away from the guests. Away from the bubbly, loud spoken Ianthe. Whoever is out there is here on purpose.

She unclicks the lock on the door but keeps the chain. Feyre isn’t expecting the person she finds on the other side.

“Your Majesty?” Feyre asks, dumbfounded.

Rhys’s sigh is long-suffering. “Feyre, dear. I thought we already covered the part where I asked you not to call me that.”

“Oh,” Feyre remembers. She’s still not sure about that. _Rhys_ just seems so informal, but somehow, calling him Mr. Velaris feels worse. “Sorry.”

He flashes her a grin, the offense forgotten. “Well,” he drawls. “Are you going to open the door, or are we going to whisper to each other like we’re prisoners in the castle dungeon.”

“There’s a dungeon?” Feyre exclaims. She winces when her voice rebounds, but Rhys just laughs.

“Of course, there is,” the king whispers, conspiratorial. His eyes are alight with playfulness. “What kind of castle doesn’t have a dungeon?”

***

Guilt ate at Rhys for the remainder of dinner. Without Saoirse there, Morrigan lost what little bit of civility she had left. His cousin’s words turned biting, turned to acid that she spewed in the direction of Ianthe every chance she got.

Rhys didn’t like their guest either. Nor was he happy for the situation he’d found himself in, but Mor’s behavior was unbecoming. She was a member of the royal family as their cousin and a ranking associate within the functioning household itself. She had to be kind to people, regardless of her personal opinions.

Dinner ended on an abysmal note, and the guests each fled to their own rooms. Cassian and Azriel didn’t have to stalk them so long as everyone stayed inside the castle, and Mor made no attempts to hide her fury with him.

Only Ianthe remained, with her sly smiles and flirty eyes.

Rhys is ashamed to say he ran away.

Yet, sleep evaded him. There was too much to be done. Reports needed to be reviewed; communications required responses. Preparations for the arrival of the suitors, the women coming to _marry_ him.

All Rhys could think of was how he’d ruined Feyre’s birthday. She hadn’t even gotten any cake.

But when Feyre opens the door, Rhys suddenly realizes the error of his decision to come here. It’s the middle of the night, for one, and Feyre barely knows Rhys, still refers to him by title and rank. What was Rhys thinking, lurking about the castle in the middle of the night, sneaking his way over here to see Feyre?

Well, he knows.

“I have a gift for you,” Rhys tells her, trying very hard to keep his eyes on her face. Feyre isn’t wearing any _pants_ , or if she is, they’re hidden beneath the giant blue sweater draped over her small frame, brushing at midthigh.

It’s—cruel. Rhys fails.

The dropping of his eyes must make Feyre realize her state, and Rhys feels just as bad for looking as she is embarrassed. Feyre flushes to her ears, stutters, and it’s probably the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

His smile is feline. “I like sleeping in the nude myself.”

Feyre snorts. The fire igniting in her eyes sends a thrill through Rhys. He loves a girl who can give as good as she gets.

“Nude only applies in references to _art_ ,” the woman tells him, voice brazen. Feyre arches one brow, sweeping her gaze over him from head to toe in a way that makes him shiver. “Otherwise, the correct term is _naked_.”

“Perhaps you should take a look,” Rhys tells her delighted. Belatedly, he prays he isn’t pushing her limits, overstepping any bounds. “Tell me if I fit the quota.”

Feyre's face hardens, and there’s a split second where he fears that Feyre is about to slam the door in his face. In the morning, the news will break about what a terrible perv the king of Prythian is. It serves him right for—

“I think you spend enough time looking for the both of us,” her grin is proud.

A door opens, closes, and both of them look down the hallway, wondering who’s caught sight of them whispering outside Feyre's door. The Castle of Dreams, though a sanctuary for his family, has always been infested with gossip.

“I,” Rhys begins, changing his tone to something more serious, apologetic. “I’m sorry that I ruined your dinner. Ruined your birthday.”

Feyre wears a soft expression. “You didn’t. Don’t worry about it.”

“No need to deny it, darling,” Rhys’s shrug is self-deprecating. “Mor already will never forgive me for ruining things. It’s alright if you’re upset that we caused a scene.”

Feyre laughs, surprising him. “You call that a scene? No one even _yelled_. Well,” she corrects, likely thinking of his terrible little sister, “almost no one. You should try having dinner with my sisters—just a normal, no special occasion dinner. _Disastrous._ ”

Rhys beams. “I’ll keep the offer in mind.”

***

The king is getting married.

Feyre doesn’t remember at first, when she wakes up; the whole evening seems like some weird fever dream. That happens sometimes; Feyre will eat far too much sugar and go to sleep hyped up and wake up in the morning with the distinct feeling that she’s dreamt something up _weird._ But the leather-bound sketchpad sits on her bedside table as a reminder; the king came to visit her last night, and he brought her a birthday present. Feyre doesn't remember the last time someone bought her a birthday present.

Still, she’s kind of excited about the whole marriage thing. As a girl raised in the poorest parts of New York, Feyre never dreamed she’d live abroad, much less somewhere that the floors were made _of marble._ Now, she’s about to watch history in the making, the kind of crazy, puff-piece story that modern-day people read and laugh about, say _This kind of thing doesn’t still happen, not anymore_.

Well, it does, and it is.

The king is getting married.

 _The king is getting married._ Because he has to.

Maybe, they should’ve included that in the job description. Or at least mentioned it in the interviews.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, my apologies for the phonetic spelling of Saoirse's nickname, Sersh. I couldn't puzzle out a way to write it, otherwise. Gotta love those tricky Irish names!


	3. PART THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys watches excitedly as Feyre turns towards the castle in just the nick of time. All at once, the Castle of Dreams ignites in a splendid combination of whites and blues. Everything has been lined with the lights: spiky towers and ornate balconies, frosted hedges and frozen fountains, impressive archways, and elegant fences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, if Netflix can insert made-up countries into the real world, then I CAN TOO.

**PART THREE**

Princess Saoirse is in a foul mood.

That’s what Feyre keeps telling her, but Saoirse really doesn’t give a rat’s ass. She tells her as much and receives the typical half-hearted scolding; Feyre is a little too kind to be in charge of any kind of reprimand. That’s always been more of Madja’s forte.

Madja. The governess chose a fantastic time to fly back home to the city, to see her family. Even if the older woman got on the princess’s nerves sometimes, Madja was always _there_. Her number one companion. If a bit dull, at least she meant that Saoirse was never alone.

Then Feyre came along, pot-stirrer she was. Saoirse liked her, but she didn’t want Feyre to know that. Feyre with her full, grey eyes and smart words. Feyre that blushed whenever her brother came into a room. Saoirse had grown used to that by now, the way that women fawned over her brother, but she didn't have to like it. Rumor said that Rhys was attractive, but Saoirse didn’t really see what all the fuss was about. Her brother was an oaf.

“Littlest Royal,” Amren’s haunting voice crooned. Saoirse would know that voice anywhere; it used to give her nightmares when she was still young and easily tricked and afraid.

Saoirse doesn't look up, keeping her eyes trained on the window overlooking the front courtyard. The entire household is down there; well, the whole household except for the princess. She wouldn’t be going.

Feyre had tried, of course, to get her to leave the window, but Saoirse would not have it. If these stupid adults thought that they could just _order_ her to pretend to be supportive, they had another thing coming. Azriel had pleaded softly, and Cassian tried to pick a fight. Mor told her she _should_ be there, but it was clear as day that her cousin was on her side.

Rhys had come, too. Both the first one and the last one to give persuading her a try. He’d entered right after Feyre's last attempt. Saoirse stared out the window both times her brother appeared, listening to the shuffle of Rhys’s clothes as he pocketed and unpocketed his hands. Her brother was at a loss with her, rare for him.

“Are you going to sit up here all day?” Amren drawls. Her expensive heels click as she approaches the window. “Or are you going to come and judge all these frivolous women with me?”

A tempting offer. Saoirse struggles to pretend she wasn’t listening. But Amren is too smart for that.

“The one that just got here,” Amren begins, conversationally. The woman, dressed in her usual grey, approaches the window, stands at Saoirse’s side. Today, Amren wears an impeccably pressed pantsuit. “The redhead—hair is definitely natural.”

Saoirse scoffs before she can help herself. “ _Please_. No one’s hair is _that_ red naturally—preposterous.”

Amren grins victoriously, turning her slate eyes on the princess. “Well, I disagree.”

“It’s because we’re so far away that you can’t tell—” Saoirse stops, caught. She glares at the woman, her family’s Head of Affairs; Amren is _literally_ Rhys’s right hand. Saoirse doesn’t know how she walked right into this one.

Amren smiles and keeps looking out the window.

“ _Fine,_ ” the princess growls. “Let’s go down—if only to prove you wrong.”

“If only to prove me wrong,” Amren echoes. And they go.

***

Feyre is already waiting in the stone-paved courtyard when Saoirse and Amren emerge from the castle. Shit, Feyre lives in a palace now. Her mother would never have believed this.

“Nice of you to join us,” Cassian drawls, taunting the princess. He's dressed in all black today, prepared to defend his king at all costs from any danger to his person. The way the women arriving looked at Rhys makes Feyre think Cassian has his work cut out for him. 

Rhys might need someone to protect his mind, too, if the way he keeps twitching is any indication.

Saoirse sticks her tongue out at Cassian, earning a chuckle from Azriel as he glides to her side. He cuts an imposing figure in his black ensemble and nondescript shades. Feyre never looks that cool in sunglasses. 

“Right,” Amren drawls, clipboard under one arm. “I need you fools to be on your best behavior this week. I’d like to minimize all opportunities for an international crisis, if possible.”

Her eyes drag across the gathered party one by one. Feyre tries not to balk when Amren’s attention falls on her, a curious expression on her face. “We’ve invited all these women here to find a wife for our majesty,” Rhys scowls at Amren’s words in displeasure. The Head of Staff merely rolls her eyes before continuing, “So I need the three of you,” Amren points a perfect finger at Mor and Saoirse—Feyre jolts when she realizes she’s included in that count, “to be on your best behavior.”

Mor hmphs. Rhys sighs deeply, long-suffering. 

Amren looks all of them with her cold, pale eyes, disgruntled expression. “Don’t embarrass me.”

***

The women arrive one by one. It’s like Feyre is living in some kind of weird, real Cinderella. There aren’t too many, a handful really, and all of them are here in hopes of catching the King of Prythian’s eye. And maybe his heart too.

Rhys—King Rhysand has turned on the charm for their arrival. Somewhere behind them, Cassian snickers to Azriel about “what hard work it is to be a king.” The bulky security guard blanches when Amren shoots him a warning glare; Azriel bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“Nice to meet you, Princess Cresseida,” the king coos in the newly arrived woman’s direction. Cresseida is the princess of Adriata, some castle by the sea country on the other side of the mountains. “Welcome to my home.”

Cresseida smiles brilliantly, the white of her teeth set off by the turquoise blue of her scarf. She’s stunning, Feyre thinks as she watches the woman move with the kind of grace that a person is born with, a natural gift that’s been honed with years of practice.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Cresseida gives the king a curtsey, and Feyre has to remind herself, again, not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. She’s standing in a courtyard of a castle, next to a princess, watching a bona fide king trade gallantry with his suitors—and they _curtsey_.

Saoirse snorts from where she stands, a little to the left, and just behind her brother. They took up the positions without having to be placed, a sign of what their upbringing must have been like. Feyre wonders at what it must have been like to be raised in a castle- in multiple castles. The people in front of her grew up with hired help, people there to see to their most basic needs, and a governess there to tell them how and where to stand, when to dip their heads in deference.

Feyre imagines the governess would not approve of the snorting. It does seem rather unladylike.

Amren’s eyes ignite with fire, but Princess Saoirse raises her head high, stands tall at a whopping four feet high. Princess Cresseida’s eyes slide to her would-be sister-in-law; she smiles. It’s like glass.

“Princess Saoirse,” Cresseida says, and Feyre holds her breath for the tricky words that must by vying to escape her lips. _I didn’t see you there._

Instead, the older princess settles with, “Always a pleasure.”

There’s no mistaking the way that Rhys’s lips twitch with amusement. Feyre meets his eye across the courtyard. She looks away quickly, too quickly; Feyre is still feeling a little shy about answering her bedroom door without any pants. It just—the king of the country was _not_ supposed to be on the other side of that door.

“This way, Your Highness,” Nuala interrupts before the princesses could begin to trade underhanded compliments. The staff here is trained even more cleverly than the royalty.

***

“Cauldron, you really are terrible at this!” Saoirse exclaims, watching Feyre butcher another curtsey, yet again.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t raised taking royal etiquette classes on bowing since my birth. Not like some people, I know,” Feyre growls, trying to figure out how she’s getting it so wrong. Every. Time. She’s watched Saoirse do it a thousand times already; why was this so hard?

Saoirse and Mor break into a fit of giggles as Feyre’s next attempt fails. Like a child, the tutor stomps her feet, frustrated and irritated; this is all Amren’s fault. The king’s right hand had insisted that she learn some “sense of grace” if Feyre was going to be wandering amongst all these beautiful people. It wasn’t going very well.

Princess Saoirse hops off of the bench in the ballroom and practically dances over to where Feyre stands, wearing a completely inappropriate sweater dress. It was the first one she’d found, and Feyre had no idea where her tights had wandered off to during the moving process. Yet, the princess _insisted_ that her tutor go back to her rooms and change into a dress. Feyre had no idea why it mattered. She couldn’t perform a proper curtsey in a pair of slacks, and she also couldn’t curtsey in a sweater dress.

“Okay, okay,” Saoirse gasps through her giggles. “One more time: like _this._ ”

Feyre butchers the motion again. Morrigan cackles, mirthless. Feyre is considering just dying on the spot or maybe just running away.

Another laugh joins in; it’s not one that Feyre recognizes. When she turns her head, she spies Rhysand and one of the suitors—Vassa, if Feyre’s memory is to be believed. She’s one of six daughters of someone or another of somewhere or another; Feyre hasn’t been paying very much attention.

But Saoirse has. The girl’s icy eyes glare in the direction of her brother and his suitor; they both pretend not to notice.

Vassa is made of fire. She rushes towards where Feyre stands with Saoirse with a smile, beginning to talk in a thick accent. Her words come too quickly for Feyre to understand. Seemingly not noticing the language barrier, the redhead starts to guide Feyre’s limbs into the proper positions, demonstrating how they’re supposed to move to get there.

“Now, you try!” Vassa sing-songs. Feyre really wants to dislike her for the sake of solidarity with her young princess, but it’s tough to do so under the force of Vassa’s warm, bright smiles.

Feyre tries again. No one speaks. She must really be a lost cause.

“That was lovely, Feyre,” Rhys tells her, voice fond. His praise makes her feel warm and bubbly, and when Vassa begins to clap, hopping up and down in her designer shoes, Feyre smiles, too.

***

Feyre practically runs away from the ballroom when Rhys begins to con Saoirse into going for a walk in the froze gardens. The Princess of Prythian is less than thrilled to be partaking in her hostess duties, but it would appear that the one person Saoirse has any fear of in this world is Amren. The woman knows this and uses that fact to her advantage often. 

“Now, just where are you running off to?” Cassian catches the tutor around a counter, a sly, lazy grin plastered on his face.

Feyre rolls her eyes at Cassian; he just likes to ask questions for the sake of sticking his nose in things. He calls it “doing his job,” but Cassian is just nosey.

“Out,” Feyre tells him vaguely just to upset him. It works.

“Out _where_?” Cassian leans in; his grin has turned shit-eating.

“Out,” Feyre repeats, using her size to her advantage and slipping past the brute. She takes off down the hallway with a laugh, turning around to say, “Don’t you have a king to guard or something?”

Cassian’s reply is not polite.

***

She makes a trip up the mountain that afternoon with her sketchpad and some watercolor pencils. They’re not her favorite medium, but they’ll do the job just fine, on the side of a mountain without standard plumbing for a source of water. Maybe one day she’ll make the trek up here with her paints, anyway, even if it’d be a massive pain in the butt. It’d be a great use of a day off. She’d do it, Feyre decides, just as soon as the other tutors return, providing her with some extra time.

The woman paints away the daylight hours, frowns when the light begins to retreat too early due to the season. Feyre’s done multiple sketches now, but she thinks she could try one more time before the sun is lost. She just wants to get that tower _just_ right.

***

Rhys slips out of the castle and away from his company the very first chance he gets. After spending the afternoon with the spitfire that was Princess Vassa Hayes of Vallahan, Rhys needed a break. It was not that he hadn’t enjoyed her company, but the fast-spoken young woman was, well, a lot to take in.

Saoirse adored her, which was just terrifying. Anyone who could break through his little sister’s wall of ice was a force to be reckoned with, someone not to take lightly. Like her tutor. 

Feyre was the first person in a long time to get through his little sister’s guarded exterior. The princess always has been a loving creature, but life as a royal had begun to harden her after the death of their parents. Saoirse took the loss hard. Not that Rhys didn’t miss his parents too; yet, Rhys tried to pretend everything away. The new, young king found it increasingly hard to do so when he still found himself looking to his father whenever someone addressed the king.

“Going somewhere?” Azriel asks, catching the king by the little secret door off of the staff quarters. Rhys smiles guiltily. He’d managed to slip Cassian’s leash, but he’d forgotten all about Azriel’s cunning ways. 

“Just for a walk,” the king tells his guard. Azriel’s eyes are knowing.

“I thought you’d had enough walking _to last you a lifetime_ ,” Azriel turns Rhys’s earlier words against him. Ianthe had caught him by the arm as soon as the group cleared the door, asked to go view the grounds with him—he’d just gotten back. 

Rhys scowls, “You’re a cruel thing, Azriel. That’s why I have you stay with Sersh. Let the two of you pick at each other.”

Azriel’s expression turns fond. “The Princess is strong-willed. It runs in the family, I hear.”

A laugh. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Where are you going?” It’s not exactly a question. 

“Friendly reminder that I am your king, and I’m supposed to boss you about—not the other way around.” Rhys hovers at the door. He thinks he hears Ianthe's horrible giggles in the distance. He flinches. 

Azriel’s lip trembles. “No feelings of affection for your future queen?”

“That woman is not—“ Rhys stops himself mid outburst, running a hand down his face. “That’s not what she’s telling people, is it?”

A shrug. “Only every chance she gets.”

“Cauldron, take me.”

They stand there in silence a while longer. Rhys thinks Azriel just likes to make him squirm. The cold sweeps in from the cracks around the door; someone ought to see to it that this door is fixed. But the king doesn’t want his emergency exit found. 

A sigh, Azriel turns his hazel eyes on his king, thoughtful. “Promise not to leave the grounds, and I suppose I can pretend I never saw you.” Azriel looks unconvinced. Then he adds in afterthought. “Your Majesty.”

“I swear on my king and country,” Rhys wears a sly smile, and Azriel shakes his head at him. A door opens, closes. The clicking of heels announcing another person nearby.

Azriel looks to him, “Better run while you can.”

Rhys slips out the worn door without another word. He thinks Azriel might require a raise. 

***

“Have you seen His Majesty?” Ianthe’s syrupy voice fills the room. Mor cuts the woman an unimpressed look. Didn’t the woman just spend the afternoon tea with him? Or had the poor bastard managed to escape?

“He’s a busy guy,” Mor drawls from where she lounges. Saoirse glares from where she sits beside Mor, dolled up in some of her evening best. A dainty tiara sits atop the princess’s head, woven into her dark tresses. “Maybe he’s trying to get some work done.”

Lady Ianthe pouts. “But I already checked his office, he wasn’t there.”

“A smart king never works where someone can find him,” Princess Vassa informs the dinner table. Her fiery red mane has been tackled this evening, pinned into an elegant chignon. It doesn’t suit her wild persona. “At least that’s what my father always says.”

Mor struggles not to roll her eyes. Cresseida speaks before she has to come up with something witty and companionable. The Lady Morrigan hates to be companionable under duress.

“Hopefully, his majesty will reappear in time for the lighting of the castle grounds,” Princess Cresseida says to no one in particular. “I’ve heard the castle is positively stunning this time of year at night.”

Saoirse snorts, but she pales a little when all eyes fall to her.

“Say, Your Highness,” Vassa asks, looking around. “Where’d your tutor wander off to this evening? I was going to offer some more curtseying lessons, but I couldn’t find her.”

Ianthe’s sharp eyes scan the room at the mentioning of Feyre; Mor thinks she’s likely finding Rhys and Feyre’s mutual absence suspicious. Morrigan hopes that that isn’t the case, that their absences aren't connected. Rhys has done many stupid things in his lifetime, consenting to this arranged marriage business is one of them. But getting involved with your staff while trying to sort through suitors and find a wife would possibly be the dumbest thing yet.

***

Rhys wanted to find whatever idiotic ancestor of his made this stupid law and throttle them. And he wanted whatever idiot council member that brought up the bill to come forward, so he could throw them into the dungeons.

Honestly, how does a king taking a wife— _a royal consort_ —help him become a better sovereign, by simply being married?

There’s the obvious answer, of course, the one that the romantic part of his brain likes to tell him. Though it’s only relevant to a modern mind: you have a partner, someone to share the burden with and help you through the hard times.

Then there’s the medieval one, misogynistic and orthodox: a king needs a queen, needs someone to bear children, and a suitable match can come with connections.

Mother— _kids._

Who on earth would want to bring a child into this life, filled with expectations and fake smiles? In to a world where the media lived to track your every footstep, every mistake? Where they posted pictures of your first real date across every available platform for the country –and the rest of the world—to see?

It was one of the worst moments of his life; Rhys could still summon the horror, the embarrassment, that he felt when he saw the pictures stamped onto the front of a tabloid. He could feel it like it was yesterday.

The girl never spoke to him, again, too embarrassed to even look him in the eye. Rhys skipped his lessons for days afterward; his father had been furious with him. His mother tried reasoning, tried to console him.

His parents—Rhys tries not to think about them as of late. According to the law, the former king and queen of Prythian were also the result of an arranged marriage. Had they loved each other at all? Or was it all just a result of duty, of necessity? Was that what his future was destined to be? Saoirse’s?

No, he’d never let his little sister succumb to such a fate. The country would have to pry the princess from Rhys’s cold, dead hands before that ever happened. Rhys would take the burden so that she did not have to.

But for now, he was going to hike up to his favorite spot and escape. For just a little while.

***

Imagine Rhys’s surprise when he finds Feyre bundled up and sketching by the dimming light. She’s claimed his spot, it would appear, and Rhys finds himself loathe to interrupt her. Feyre looks so focused with her face set into severe, concentrated lines, and that forehead of hers furrowed.

She was magnificent. The traitorous little thought escaped Rhys before he could think better of it. It shocked him, the truth of it. When did that happen?

The king clears his throat before he can think better of it, announcing his presence to the tutor; the woman startles, jumping from her seat made of an old, smoothed over tree stump. Feyre glares when she realizes who it is, and Rhys can’t help the troublesome smile that spreads across his face. He just enjoys ruffling her feathers; she looks so cute when upset.

“I do believe you’ve stolen my seat, Feyre Darling,” Rhys purrs, surprised at the confidence he exudes, even though inside he is falling apart. All the women that are either here or on their way to see him, to take part in some old-fashioned courting game, and yet, none of those women make him feel even an ounce of the excitement that this woman before him does. He’s in deep shit, as Cassian would say.

“I didn’t see your name on it,” Feyre grumbles, flipping her ruffled hair over one shoulder in defiance. That might be his favorite part about her; Feyre isn’t afraid to stand up to him, even though he is literally a king.

Some would say it’s the American in her, and yet, Rhys knows that her country of origin has nothing to do with it. Feyre isn’t the type of woman to acquiesce with ease. That doesn't come from where she was born, or raised.

“Perhaps, you haven’t heard,” Rhys drawls, walking up close to her. He may or may not be hoping to see what it is that Feyre is working on so diligently out here on the mountainside. “But I own this country. Every seat is my seat.”

The sketchbook snaps shut decisively. So, Feyre saw right through him. Rhys grins; she scoffs.

“Don’t you have a harem to get back to or something?” Feyre asks him, standing up from the tree stump. She shoves her supplies in the small backpack on the ground, snatches at the flashlight she’s been using for a lamp. “You wouldn’t want all those fine ladies to miss you.”

“I’m sure Amren will keep them busy enough,” Rhys shrugs. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to miss the show.”

Feyre’s eyes burn at him. “What _show?_ ”

“Don’t worry, Darling,” Rhys winks at her. “You’re blushing is perhaps the best thing I’ve ever seen, but it’s not the reason I’ve come up here.” Rhys nods towards the castle, “That is.”

Rhys watches excitedly as Feyre turns towards the castle in just the nick of time. All at once, the Castle of Dreams ignites in a splendid combination of whites and blues. Everything has been lined with the lights: spiky towers and ornate balconies, frosted hedges and frozen fountains, impressive archways, and elegant fences.

Feyre’s sharp intake of breath is his reward. Rhys can’t help but beam at the spectacle, but his eyes are only for Feyre. He drinks in the woman’s reaction, her wide grey eyes, and slightly agape mouth.

The wonder in her eyes almost outranks the beauty of his childhood home.


	4. PART FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian is going to get fired, he thinks while he walks one of the town's squares. The bloody King of Prythian has gone missing again. It’s the second time in as many days, and once more, Cassian, Head of Royal Security, has no idea where His Majesty has wandered off to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The highly anticipated Part Four! Thank you all again for reading and your support!

**PART FOUR**

The view overcomes Feyre. She’d known, of course, that the Royal Family of Prythian was going to light the castle tonight, that Saoirse had spent hours getting fitted for a proper dress, that Rhys had the whole evening blocked out in his schedule for an appearance. Yet, she still wasn’t ready to _see_ it in action. It was beautiful.

And Rhys was here, with her, instead of fulfilling his duties as king.

Feyre looks up at Rhys only to find him smiling back down at her. The lights from below sparkle in his eyes as he watches her, like a thousand tiny stars and Feyre forgets whatever snarky thing she was planning on saying. He’s standing so close. Feyre leans in.

“You,” a voice interrupts, smooth and carefully neutral, “did not remain on the grounds.”

The moment is broken, just like that. Rhys’s gaze darts to the newcomer; Azriel stands in the shadows, face devoid of any emotion, but his body language tells Feyre that he is mad—at the king. Feyre didn't think that Azriel could get upset.

“I got distracted,” Rhys lilts, chancing a look at Feyre and immediately looking away from her. He regrets the moment, Feyre thinks, and she steps away from him, her face flooding with heat. Of course, Rhys would regret such a thing, and Feyre should, too. He’s getting _married_. She grabs her bags.

“I need to get back to the castle,” Feyre mumbles, determined to escape whatever reprimanding Azriel is about to deliver to Rhys, deliver to the both of them more likely. “Saoirse is probably about to murder someone.”

“Saoirse is being a good hostess,” Azriel says, eyes on Rhys, “because the host didn’t show up like he was supposed to.”

“Azriel,” Rhys warns his bodyguard, one of his best friends. That is probably why people say not to work with family; it must be hard when the family is the business. “I can only tolerate so much insubordination at once.”

Azriel looks as if he could care less. He motions down towards the path that leads back to the castle. The one each of them took to get up here. “After you, Your Majesty.”

Feyre flees first. She scrambles down the mountainside as quickly as she can without breaking her neck. She thinks that Rhys tries to match her pace, to start a conversation with her as they make the trek back, but Feyre is sure to speed up each time, ducking her head and avoiding looking back into those big blue eyes.

The king probably wants to apologize, wants to explain that he didn’t mean to look at her like that, didn’t mean any of it. And why would he, Feyre can’t help but think bitterly to herself. The man has a whole gaggle of beautiful, accomplished women waiting for him, vying for his attention. An ordinary tutor from NYC does not compare.

***

It gets so much worse when they reach the castle’s grounds. Saoirse and Morrigan are there, shadowed by Amren and Cassian; they’re playing hostess to the suitors, all dressed in their beautiful clothes. Even the citizens of Prythian, the ones who live down the mountain at the nearest town, have come via special royal invitation. Winter Solstice is the kind of celebration that the royal family likes to include everyone in.

Feyre feels like a fool, hurtling down a mountain and into a glorified garden party in a pair of everyday boots and her worn, green coat. Charcoal stains her jeans, and knowing herself, Feyre thinks there’s probably some on her face too. Perhaps, she’ll just slink away in the shadows, go and hide in her room; after all, Feyre has no idea how she’s supposed to face the king right now.

God, she was definitely about to kiss him, Rhys. The _King of Prythian._

“Feyre,” a familiar deep voice, calls her name from behind her. Fuck, she practically ran down the mountainside to get away from him. Feyre wasn’t fast enough, apparently.

The tutor chances a glance in the king’s direction, and it goes about as badly as she hoped. Rhysand looks regretful, and Azriel watches her thoughtfully over the king’s shoulder. Feyre averts her gaze quickly, looking to her feet and making her way towards the side entrance.

“Feyre,” Rhysand calls again, “Wait, please.”

She stops but does not turn around.

“Ah! There he is!” A voice calls out, sounding falsely relieved. “We were beginning to worry about you.”

Feyre looks over in time to meet the sharp gaze of the Princess of Adriata; Cresseida looks Feyre over carefully, likely picking apart the plainness of her clothes and the tangled mess that is most assuredly her hair. Inadequacy strikes Feyre right through the heart. An ordinary, dull tutor from New York could never compare to Cresseida's flawless grace and tailored outfit. Feyre was a fool.

“You look like you’ve been through hell and back, dear,” the princess observes, offhandedly. “Perhaps, it’s time you turn in for the night.”

Feyre skin burns as she flushes from head to toe in embarrassment. It’s been a long time since another girl was able to make her feel so small; it’s like she’s gone back to high school again. Feyre never wanted to relive those horrid years.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rhysand drawls, coming to stand at Feyre’s side. He gives her an appreciative sweep, then smiles at Princess Cresseida. “I think my royal tutor looks quite cute, all flushed and breathless like this.”

The Princess of Adriata looks as if someone dumped a bucket of ice down her beautiful pale pink trench coat, and Amren doesn’t look all the pleased either, lips pursed and fire in her eyes. Lucky for Feyre, Azriel is the only other person within earshot. Lady Ianthe is too busy batting her lashes at the people of Prythian to notice, and Mor and Saoirse hover nearby her.

Then the Princess of Prythian notices her brother, icy eyes darting between Feyre and Rhysand with a silent question. She sends her brother a glower before turning a brilliant smile on her people.

“Oh! Look who’s finally arrived!” Princess Saoirse exclaims animatedly. “King Rhysand is here, fashionably late as always.”

Feyre uses the distraction to run away, but before she is out of earshot, she hears Rhysand’s teasing bravado. The man positively oozes charm; it’s the only way he could possibly manage to charm the pants off of people who’ve been waiting hours for the chance to see him, speak with him.

“A king is never late,” Rhysand teases, approaching his sister and wrapping an arm around her. “Everyone else is simply early.”

***

“What’s going on between you and my brother?”

Princess Saoirse’s eyes are like daggers as they watch Feyre from the vanity mirror. Today the royal family and its entourage are headed down the mountainside to give a Winter Solstice speech at the orphanage the Velaris family patronages.

It means dressing Saoirse in nice, warm clothes and trying to convince her to be on her best behavior. Feyre isn’t required to go to the ceremony, but she’s using the free ride to get into town and see the sights. Feyre's been cooped up inside the castle for a couple of weeks now; she still hasn't seen anything more than a passing glimpse of the town. It's supposed to be beautiful during the festival.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Feyre plays dumb, fiddling with the hair barrette in her hands. Alis quickly snatches the ornamentation away from her, placing it deftly in the princess’s hair; Feyre is left empty-handed and trying to hide her fidgeting.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Saoirse tells her tutor, waving off Alis from her face. She turns those blue eyes on Feyre, “You two can’t stop making eyes at each other every chance you get.”

“W-what?” Feyre flushes, ending any chance she had at playing it cool. “We don’t make eyes at each other. We’re—friends.”

Princess Saoirse holds Feyre’s gaze a few moments longer than is comfortable. A move she inevitably learns from her cousin, Morrigan. Then she looks away back to the mirror; Alis returns to her work on the princess’s hair. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

Feyre thinks she catches the hint of a smile on the maid’s face, too, but she’s too busy avoiding eye contact with either of them to be sure.

***

When Feyre and Saoirse arrive at the cars, Amren directs the tutor into line with the suitors, to her horror. The reason is purely technical. As the best plan of action, the king and his sister do not ride together, but there isn’t room in either car after factoring in Cassian, Azriel, Morrigan, and Amren. Feyre is the oddball out.

So, as the royal family rolls away down the drive, Feyre is left idling amongst impatient princesses, and cold ladies. For the most part, she manages to avoid eye contact with them, having successfully avoided them after the light debacle over a day ago. Feyre didn't have the guts to face anyone within the walls of the royal residences, and so, yesterday, she’d cooped herself in her room, pleaded ill. It would seem her luck had run out.

“You were missed at the afternoon tea, yesterday,” Princess Vassa tells Feyre. She doesn’t know what’s worse: that Vassa seems genuine in her worry or that Feyre might actually like her, one of the women trying to marry herself off to Rhys.

“Yes,” Princess Cresseida’s voice interjects, playing concerned. “Luckily, both you and the King have overcome your afflictions. We were all so concerned something might be going around.”

So, Rhys had also made excuses to get out of his duties. Coward King.

“Yeah, I was feeling terrible,” Feyre laments, words ringing false even to her own ears. She tries to fight the blush at being caught. “Migraine.”

“How peculiar,” Cresseida says, adjusting her costly purse over one arm. Vassa watches the two of them with full, if not amused, eyes. “King Rhysand, too.”

Feyre gapes at the three ladies, unsure of what to say. She knows what it looks like, and that makes this all so much worse; Feyre stayed away yesterday to avoid this nonsense, to avoid the way Ianthe’s angry eyes burn into the back of her head as she gets into the nondescript, but very expensive black shuttle. And sure enough, Rhysand had to ruin all her efforts by choosing the same fake illness as her. Feyre could strangle him.

***

Cassian is going to get fired, he thinks while he walks one of the town's squares. The bloody King of Prythian has gone missing again. It’s the second time in as many days, and once more, Cassian, Head of Royal Security, has no idea where His Majesty has wandered off to.

He can’t say that he blames the king, Cassian muses, as he watches the royal suitors mingling with the citizens of Veritas. The ever-growing village is Morrigan’s namesake, and it’s also the small city that the Castle of Dreams overlooks, located in the valley below. It's bustling with life today, fueled by the Winter Solstice spirit. Veritas is the place to be during the week of celebrations; it shows by the crowds.

It’s how Rhys managed to slip his leash. The king always had a knack for blending into shadows, moving around a dark corner, and disappearing into the night. Back when they were kids—Rhys an unruly prince and Cassian, the son of a groundskeeper—it was useful, Rhys’s ability to run and hide. It gave them plenty of opportunities to cause trouble. Now it made Rhys the most significant pain in Cassian's ass.

“Where’s His Majesty?” Cassian freezes at Amren’s harsh tone. The small woman may only weigh as much as Cassian’s left arm, but it doesn’t stop Amren from scaring the shit out of him. She could kill a man with nothing but one look from those sharp, gray eyes.

“Uh,” Cassian searches his brain for an excuse. Fuck, he’s so fired. “He needed to step away, to the little king’s room.”

Amren scans Cassian’s face for the lie, but the curt nod she gives him, makes Cassian think that he’s managed to get away unharmed—for now.

“When he comes out,” Amren says over her shoulder, stalking away from the bodyguard and back towards the crowd, “direct him our way. It’s nearly time for the speech.”

Shit, Cassian thinks. He’s definitely fired.

***

Feyre ditched the royal entourage as soon as she was able. Princess Saoirse didn’t blame her, but she was incredibly jealous of her tutor as she watched her disappear into the crowd. The girl only wished that she had the liberty to sneak off in the middle of the day and go exploring like an average person. Yet, Saoirse grew up in a castle, with bodyguards and strict rules of decorum. She did not get to go exploring anywhere further than the castle gardens alone, not without an escort.

Azriel coasts behind her, invisible to most, but not to Prince Saoirse. He was an ever-looming shadow over her shoulder, prepared to lay his life down for her, but he was also her jailor. It didn’t matter how dark and mysterious the princess found Az; she wasn’t able to forgive him that one offense. Even if it wasn’t his fault. Even if he was kinda cute.

No one knew this better than the man himself. Azriel never missed _anything_. “Perhaps after this shindig is over, we can go to the ice cream parlor, order some sweets,” he suggests kindly, with a soft smile.

Saoirse wants to begrudge him, but it’s hard to do so when he smiles.

“I’d like that,” the princess answers, fighting off a blush. No one knows better than Saoirse that Azriel is an utterly off-limits and impossible option. She’s a girl, not an idiot. Still, he always found a way to make her flush; Saoirse knew he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

“Where’s that idiot brother of yours?” Saoirse’s cousin exclaims, whirling around a corner and looking a little concerned. The expression on Mor’s face immediately refocuses the princess to the new matter at hand; there’s no time for a silly, fleeting crush.

“What do you mean?” Saoirse asks, scanning the little courtyard of the orphanage. “Don’t tell me you fools lost him again?”

The Lady Morrigan’s eyes flash with a warning at her cousin, princess or not. Her next words come out ground through her perfect teeth. “No one has _lost him_. The moron has run away. Again.”

Saoirse doesn’t miss the way that Mor’s brown eyes flick to Azriel, who’s jaw tightens. Rumor has it, the Princess’s bodyguard was the one to release the king from his chains the other night he went missing, when he was found on the mountainside with Feyre.

“Shouldn’t Cassian be with him?” Azriel asks, softly. Mor snorts. Cassian and Amren are nowhere to be seen. Likely the Head of Staff is currently in the process of hiding the Head of Security’s body. It was nice knowing him.

“Cassian is too busy winking at the giggling tourists to notice when the _King of Prythian_ wanders off without him,” Morrigan’s eyes flash, again. “Honestly, sometimes it feels like I run this whole bloody country myself.”

Princess Saoirse smiles. “Well, you do a lovely job if I do say so myself.”

Mor smiles back at her, winks. “Just wait. The second you’re old enough, I’m dumping this mess on you and running away with the first hot brunette I find.”

The three of them laugh, despite the current situation. One has to be able to laugh amid a crisis, so Saoirse’s mother always said. It wasn’t until Saoirse started participating in the many calamities that fell upon Prythian that she understood her mother’s words.

She had a feeling that her brother and cousin still sheltered her from the brunt of it.

“Cassian Asker!” Their laughter stops at the sharp note in Amren’s voice. The tone could scare even the bravest of souls. May the Mother pray for the person that ever fell for Amren and her cunning smiles.

The princess thinks she hears a squeak in the distance that sounds like Cassian. Amren growls, “Where’s your charge?”

“Should we save him?” Saoirse asks in a stage whisper. Azriel shrugs indifferently, and Mor looks entirely uninclined to do such a thing.

“Worse,” Morrigan tells her with a frown, her bottom lip protruding out. “We need to go entertain the guests.”

Saoirse was going to wring her brother’s neck when she saw him next.

***

“How about this one, m’ lady?” The little brown-eyed girl asked Feyre, holding up a particularly gruesome stick drawing.

“Call me, Feyre,” she told the child. Her name was Elle; she reminded Feyre of her sister, both in looks and name.

The children of the orphanage noticed Feyre earlier in the day, getting out of the royal motorcade, and they had immediately pegged her for one of the royal ladies in town to court the king. Feyre had tried endlessly to correct them, but the efforts were proving futile. Feyre didn’t like the implications, didn’t like how the idea of her courting Rhys made her gut twist. So, she was steadfastly ignoring it, as was the appropriate response.

“Faerie,” the girl attempted her name, failing in the cutest of ways. Then Elle gestured towards her drawing once more. “Do you like it?”

“Very much,” Feyre told her with a smile. The figure was in black and wore an outline of a crown, done in bright yellow crayon. Feyre already had an idea of who it was supposed to be, but she asked anyway. “Who is that?”

“The king!” Elle cheered, jumping with her excitement. Feyre kind of loved her. “Do you think he’d like it?”

Feyre pretended to consider it, but the woman knew immediately that Rhys was the kind of guy that would melt under the force of this little girl’s smile. She’d seen how good he was with Saoirse, sister or not. Feyre had a hard time imagining the king being anti-kid.

“He’d _love it_ ,” she tells Elle.

The girl positively beams. “I’m going to go make another!”

She’s gone before Feyre can stop her. The woman smiles after her, then turns back to her own doodle. She isn’t sure how she wound up at the orphanage, but Feyre wasn’t disappointed by the turn of events.

The tutor had planned to explore the city, and Feyre had nearly done just that until she noticed a few of the children watching the entourage through the windows. As it turns out, only some of the children were attending the king’s speech, and the others were left to stay behind, out of trouble.

Feyre wasn’t able to resist going and speaking with the kids. They’d been _ecstatic_ about getting to talk to one of the ladies; even the woman left behind to keep an eye on the kids treated Feyre like, well, royalty. Feyre’s contradictions could not dissuade them of the idea.

“Thank you for helping me distract the children. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you,” the guardian, Anne, says. In her arms is a small child, maybe a year old. The baby’s bright green eyes watch Feyre closely; she’s smitten immediately.

“Well, you can start by letting me hold that baby,” Feyre tells her excitedly. Anne laughs good-naturedly and hands the baby off to her.

“Lady Feyre meet Clark,” Anne tells her with a smile. One of the other children takes a tumble in the distance, and the woman makes a face, waiting for the tears. As they begin, she gives Feyre a pleading look. Feyre already knows what’s coming; she waves Anne off.

“Go on,” Feyre tells her. “Clark and I will be right here.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Anne tells her, vanishing into thin air and reappearing in a flash at the other child's side. Feyre doesn't know how caretakers move so fast, like magic. The tutor definitely doesn’t think she’d be able to do this kind of thing fulltime, tend to unruly kids, but even back home, Feyre liked to spend a few hours with them, drawing and enjoying the young creative minds.

Feyre bounces the baby as she returns to her seat. “What do you say, Clark? Wanna help me finish this picture?”

Clark squeals at the sight of the crayons. Feyre supposes that means he’s a willing participant. Laughing, she hands the boy a green pencil and watches as he drags it across her doodle of a Christmas tree. She doesn’t mind in the slightest that he's ruined the drawing; in fact, Feyre finds his squiggles to be a definite improvement.


	5. PART FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The princess was going to murder her brother when she saw him next. Regicide charges would likely prevent her from becoming the next Queen of Prythian after the fall of her brother, but her revenge would be worth the loss and more. Besides, Saoirse was like 99% confident that Morrigan was in line for the throne after her; Prythian would do fine without the Velaris siblings.

**PART FIVE**

Rhys thought he’d had more time to do what he needed, and now he was definitely very late to his own appearance. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately, more and more as of late. It wasn’t that Rhys was lazy or indifferent to being king; in fact, he felt quite the opposite about it. Rhys loved his county, and he wanted to help it do great things for its people. But anyone reading one of those tabloids with his face featured front and center, they might disagree with the king's claims.

They could just fuck off as far as he was concerned. Perhaps, that was why Amren didn’t let King Rhysand interact with the media, if at all possible.

The King of Prythian weaves his way through the quiet Veritas as quickly and discretely as possible. This village had always been his sanctuary when he was growing up, and it still was. If the Prince of Prythian was missing, one could rest assured that they’d find him down here, seeking some solitude—and maybe a bit of trouble. Things hadn’t changed much since Rhys grew up or since Rhys became King.

The people of Veritas rarely took a second look at him; after all, the man standing alone in the town square couldn't _possibly_ be the King of Prythian. He didn't have any guards, no lackeys. Kings never went anywhere without either. Well, they weren't supposed to.

Still, he’d had a good reason for sneaking off, and if it meant that Rhys had a few moments of suitor-free peace, then all the better.

***

Amren was going to kill the boy king when she got her hands on him. Rhysand had always been a troublesome little thing, even when he was a grown Prince, but especially when he was nothing but a kid, always sneaking about and pulling pranks with Cassian. How anyone thought it was a good idea to allow Cassian to protect his childhood friend was beyond Amren. Regardless of whether or not the boy had the qualifications.

“Cassian Asker!” Amren barks when she catches sight of the brute in question. The man has the sense to squawk at the sight of her, and Amren takes no small amount of pleasure in causing Cassian to go pale and nervous. “Where’s your charge!”

“Uh, he’s—” Cassian trips over his words, trying to find a new, acceptable excuse, but there isn’t one.

“If you say the little king’s room again, I swear I’ll snap you in two,” Amren cuts him off. “You haven’t lost him, have you?”

Cassian goes impossibly paler. “Uh, no! Of course not, he’s just gone _out_.”

“And you’re not with him because…?”

“Because,” Cassian explains hurriedly. Amren can make out the precise moment that he gives up the charade, defeated. “He didn’t tell me he was going?”

Amren snarls at him, the sound animalistic and haunting. Cassian squeals again. Like a little piggie.

“Perhaps, I could be of some assistance?” A voice interrupts, saving Cassian from his demise.

Amren halts in her advance, turning her angry silver eyes on the person who dared to interrupt them. Cassian sighs in relief at the interruption; Amren shoots him a look, and he tenses once more. She'll get him for this later.

“Who. Are. You?” She asks the white-blonde stranger. The man dares to smirk in her direction.

“Varian,” the man explains himself as if it's obvious. As if she should know him. “I’m Princess Cresseida’s escort.”

“Her bodyguard, you mean,” Amren growls. That would explain it; the Head of Staff rarely bothers to learn the names of the help. “Tell me, bodyguard, why aren’t you off _guarding_?”

“Cresseida sent me to locate the king; the people are looking for him,” Varian retains his confidence under Amren’s best glower. Impressive. “I seem I’ve discovered the problem. You’re missing the king, correct?”

Amren holds the stranger’s gaze a little longer than is necessary, waiting for the flinch or balk that comes typically; it doesn’t. She decides then that she likes this Varian. He seems to have a spine, unlike the men she's been left to suffer.

“Yes,” Amren tells him flatly. “It seems to be something of a problem lately.”

Varian grins, “My King likes to sneak off, too. Dresses up like one of the common folk and goes out for a walk amongst them. He claims it helps him keep in touch with his country, but I just think he wants me to go gray prematurely.”

Cassian barks a laugh, clamping a hand over his mouth in regret.

Varian must take that as a good sign, “May I be of some assistance?”

Amren considers him. “If you must,” she says. Varian’s smile is bright.

***

Rhys kicks the snow off his boots as he enters the orphanage from the back of the magnificent building. The Veritas Orphanage just so happened to be the former home of the Velaris family, back before some great-great-grandfather or another spent way too much of the people’s money on building the _Arce Somnia_ —or the Castle of Dreams to anyone not raised speaking Latin in stuffy castle classrooms.

Not that Rhys was complaining, really. The Castle of Dreams was his favorite place in the world, not that he got to spend enough time there; it really was too bad that this damn matchmaking scheme was ruining his time home. He could fire Amren for the suggestion. Apparently, she wanted him to stay king. What a concept.

As he traverses the former manor, the king makes out the cacophony of children speaking, high and excited, and laughing. It makes him smile. Rhys would adopt every child in this whole bloody home if he could if it didn't make for a terrible scandal. Instead, he makes sure to increase the funding for it a little bit every year. It fulfilled the need for him—at least a little bit.

The room goes silent as Rhys turns the corner and finds himself face to face with a dozen children and a surprisingly young woman. They stare at him openly, and Rhys gives a shy, apologetic smile as the caretaker gives him a curtsey, and the children attempt to do the same, floundering with their young and untrained limbs.

He waves them off, “Please, that’s not necessary.”

The woman looks inclined to contest, but then someone saves him from the pleasantries.

“The King gets nervous when people treat him like royalty,” a familiar voice teases from the other side of the room. Rhys’s heart skips a beat when his eyes find Feyre’s, smiling at his expense. Of all the things he expected to find hidden within the orphanage, Feyre curled up with baby, surrounded by children was not one of them.

“Yes, well, we can’t all be born uncivil Americans,” the king retorts before he can think better of it. He’s immediately struck with the worry Feyre will take offense, but the tutor just smiles and adjusts the babe in her lap. The little boy watches from his place in Feyre’s arms with big eyes.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Feyre purrs back, sending a thrill through him. It makes him stand to attention; Rhys has found that he absolutely loves to banter with the woman.

A tug at his leg stops the king before he can retort. Rhys looks down and into the warm, brown eyes of a little girl; she shyly offers him a picture without saying anything. He takes the paper from her gingerly, admires the depiction of himself.

“This is _amazing_ ,” the king tells the little girl, kneeling to her level. Her smile is timid. “I love it.”

“Really?” She speaks at last.

“Yes,” Rhys tells her. “I’m going to declare this my official portrait immediately. I’m a king, so they say; I can do that kind of thing.”

Feyre snorts, and Rhys meets Feyre’s eye over the child’s shoulder. The sight of Feyre leaning her head atop that of the baby's could make him melt into a puddle of goo.

“What’s your name?” The king asks, returning his attention to the little girl before he can embarrass himself.

“Elle,” the little girl tells him with confidence.

“Nice to meet you, Elle. Now, I need your help,” Rhys smiles before giving her a stern look. Elle’s eyes go wide under the attention. “I need your expertise to help me draw my own.”

Elle's eyes are bright with excitement.

***

“Bad news!” Morrigan tells Princess Saoirse. “We can’t find your brother, and it’s time for the Royal Family of Prythian to deliver a speech.”

“So, delay the speech,” the princess tells her cousin, indifferent. “Or, better yet, just cancel the damn thing. Tell everyone Rhys wasn’t feeling well, and we can reschedule. Preferably for a time where we have less company.”

Saoirse sends a meaningful look in the direction of the suitors. Princesses Cresseida and Vassa have each gathered their own little crowds, citizens, and tourists alike; as royals, they’ve been trained on how to blend in new environments. They’re doing so very well.

Lady Ianthe, on the other hand, has found herself a gaggle of her own suitors. Perhaps, she’s decided to create a backup plan? It seems like a poor tactic. Saoirse hopes she gets caught, breaks some weird antiquated law that only men are allowed to woo multiple people at once. So, they can throw her into the dungeon to rot. Yes, Princess Saoirse would like that.

“Unfortunately, that’s not an option,” Mor tells Saoirse, voice pitched a little funny.

The princess looks at her questioningly. “But Rhys isn’t here to give a speech.”

“Bah, forget about him,” Mor grins at her. “We just need a Velaris to give the speech.”

Princess Saoirse stares blankly at Mor. The Lady of Veritas wiggles her brows at the Princess of Prythian, a Velaris. When the young girl realizes the implications, she gasps.

“No way!” Saoirse yelps. “No. No, no. _No._ ”

***

Feyre was trying really hard to keep her eyes off of Rhys. The king had no right to be so damn cute while playing with children; he’d spent the better part of the last hour side by side with Elle, both of their brows furrowed thoughtfully as they discussed their collaboration in secret. They'd since finished their "masterpiece" and had moved on to other pressing matters: snowflakes to decorate the room.

The duo had settled into a corner, surrounded by stacks of paper in various colors; they'd drawn quite the gaggle of eager participants, ready to help His Majesty in his endeavors. It seemed that Clark was the only one that found Feyre interesting anymore, but even his eyes were beginning to droop.

“Someone looks ready for a nap,” Anne says softly to Feyre. Clark had been teetering on the edge of sleep for a while now, face snuggled into her neck, and Feyre finds herself not wanting to let him go.

Maybe, she could take him home with her for a bit, bring him back when he started to fuss. Clarke just looks so cute right now to Feyre; she can't bear the thought of parting with him. “Are you sure I can’t hold him a little longer?”

Anne laughs at Feyre’s expression, reaching for the child gently and taking him from the tutor’s unwilling arms. “You’d hand him over more quickly were he to wake and start crying.”

“I’m not going to try to deny that,” Feyre shoots the caretaker a wry smile. She’s not ready for children yet, even if her hormones think that she is. Feyre gives Clark’s blonde hair one last ruffle and then allows Anne to sneak off with the babe.

It leaves Feyre aimless, left with nothing to do but watch the unbearable cuteness in front of her. The King of Prythian listens to the children's stories with the utmost sincerity; he could be talking to one of his councilors for all anyone would know.

Feyre was surprised to see him appear at the door, alone and covered with snow; she guessed he must have snuck off again after his speech. That seemed to be a favorite pastime of the king's. For someone that invited a bunch of guests to his castle in the sky to court after, King Rhysand sure appeared uninterested in getting to know those women.

“Lady Faerie!” Elle calls, beckoning her. Rhys looks up quickly, his face alights with amusement at Elle’s mispronunciation of her name. “Come help us? His Majesty ruined another one.”

Feyre can’t resist the hopeful eyes of the orphans, and so, she rises from her spot in the corner to provide assistance. Sure enough, Rhys has accumulated a pile of misshapen snowflakes. Feyre gives him a look.

“Hey, I studied pollical science and history in university,” King Rhysand defends himself, shrugging his shoulders. “Not art.”

Feyre points to the perfect snowflake that another little boy is in the process of unveiling, Gabriel. “He looks a little young for a bachelor’s, I think.”

Rhys scowls. “Wicked creature. Have you no loyalty?”

“Oh, you’ll find I’m _very_ loyal,” Feyre grins, nodding towards the kids, “to cute children.”

Rhys makes a show of looking affronted. Elle giggles as she watches the king's reactions. Feyre thinks he makes them a little more animated than usual for Elle's benefit. “Very well, then. _Lady Faerie_ , if you’d be so kind, could you show us mere mortals how it’s done?”

Feyre rolls her eyes at him, turns her attention to the snowflake-machine from before. “Shall we show them?”

The boy beams.

***

The princess was going to _murder_ her brother when she saw him next. Regicide charges would likely prevent her from becoming the next Queen of Prythian after the fall of her brother, but her revenge would be worth the loss and more. Besides, Saoirse was like 99% confident that Morrigan was in line for the throne after her; Prythian would do fine without the Velaris siblings.

“False,” her cousin tells her when Saoirse confides her plans. Mor’s eyes twinkle as she guides her cousin towards the crowds, “My father is _technically_ in line for the throne after you, which would just be horrible for every last minority within the kingdom, including his daughter.”

“Oh,” Saoirse had forgotten all about her horrible uncle, banished away to his manor in the countryside. “Well, can’t we just skip him? I’m the Princess, I can do that, can’t I? Before I commit treason?”

Mor has the nerve to laugh at her. “No. Besides, murder is not going to get you out of the speech. Unless you can find your target before we reach the podium, in which case, I think the murder wouldn't be necessary anymore?"

Saoirse scowls at her logic; there's no place for it in revenge. Mor gives her a push. "Go on. It’s just about time for Amren to introduce you.”

Saoirse goes pale. “Why can’t you just do it? You’re good at running your mouth.”

“Well, as punishment for that comment for one,” Mor growls, giving her cousin another shove in the direction of the front steps where the people of Veritas have gathered. Saoirse looks like a deer in headlights. “And we’ve been over the second reason already: the _Velaris_ family is the patron of the _Velaris_ Family Orphanage, and sadly, I was born a Verity and not a Velaris. Close but not quite.

“Now get out there,” Mor cackles as she gives one final push, knocking the twelve-year-old off balance. Princess Saoirse has no other option but to take a few steps forward or risk losing her footing altogether and toppling down the steps to the cobblestones beneath.

The gathered crowd cheers at her appearance; adrenaline kicks in to save Saoirse’s life in the face of all these people. She flashes her best diplomatic smile, waving the way her mother always taught her to. The camera’s flash, and it takes a monumental effort not to be shocked, frozen by the brightness of them.

“Hello!” Princess Saoirse greets the crowd as she takes her place front and center. The group collectively sighs at the adorable princess, and she thinks she might hate them—just a little. She’s not cute; she’s a fucking princess.

Lady Morrigan and the suitors follow after her; Azriel is close behind them. Cassian is off trying to save himself from Amren’s wrath. Saoirse wonders just where her brother got off to.

Amren looks pleased with the Princess’s arrival. She turns towards the crowd, introduces Saoirse. “Please welcome, Princess Saoirse Velaris of Prythian!”

Saoirse is definitely going to kill her brother, she thinks, as the crowd applauds. They’ll at least allow her a book or two in the dungeons.

***

“I have something to tell you,” Rhys tells Feyre, smiling. The children are hanging up the snowflakes as they watch, and Rhys grins as Elle puts up his disastrous attempts as well.

Feyre raises her brow, returns him smile. “Funny you should say that,” she tells him. “Me, too.”

“Do tell, Lady Faerie,” he grins while she rolls her eyes.

Rhys’s heart starts to race for no reason, in particular. They haven’t been alone since the night of the castle lighting. Rhys tried to seek her out yesterday, with a less than coincidental run in the hallways, but it hadn’t worked. She must have been hiding from him because he had run into Saoirse and her knowing frowns; he’d wanted so badly to speak with her.

Feyre was going to kiss him; Rhys knew it. But Azriel had chosen the absolute worst time ever to show up and be a mother hen.

“I need to give you my notice,” Feyre tells him, and Rhys’s heart breaks into a million tiny pieces. He’s too busy spiraling to notice the tutor’s mischievous smile, “because I’m going to adopt all of these children, and I don’t think you or Amren would be very appreciative if I brought them all back to the castle with me.”

It takes a moment for Rhys’s head to catch up with her words, and even then, his heart still pounds with a realization: Feyre will leave someday.

He pulls himself together. “On the contrary, Lady Faerie, I would be delighted to host you and your small army.”

Feyre’s happiness is blinding. “Excellent. Then I’d like to keep my job.”

“I’d like for you to keep your job, too.” Rhys’s words feel a little too much like an admission. Feyre’s smile falters for a second, and he worries he’s said too much.

“So,” Feyre clears her throat and changes the subject. “What was it that you needed to tell me?”

There’s no mistaking the way she smooths her skirt in nervousness, blue like her eyes, and Rhys knows she’s purposefully avoiding eye contact. He won’t hold it against her.

“Ask you, really,” Rhys concedes, procuring the picture he and Elle worked so tirelessly on. “I need to borrow your artistic eye.”

Feyre raises her brow again. Waits.

“Tell me,” Rhys gives her the picture. It’s his and Elle’s attempt at drawing the Castle of Dreams. Elle had insisted that be the subject of their image. “Do you think I have a future in art, tutor?”

Feyre takes the paper from him, fingers brushing his own. It feels silly that something so simple should have such an effect on him, but the small contact positively delights Rhys. But it’s over before it has barely begun.

“Hmm,” Feyre makes a show of examining the artwork, tilting the page this way and that to get a better look. Then, without a word, she hands it back to Rhys. “I’d say, don’t quit your day job, Your Majesty.”

Rhys’s laugh surprises him, earns the looks of the children. Feyre giggles next to him, bright and happy. He finds himself watching her, smitten.

“Were that I could,” Rhys laments, reaching out and tucking a lock of Feyre’s hair behind her ear. The tutor’s laugh stops abruptly, and her eyes meet his own. Rhys thinks he’s stopped breathing, but he can’t be bothered to worry about that now.

“We need more snowflakes!” Elle cries out, interrupting their moment. Rhys gives a long sigh, and Feyre gives him a sorry look.

“It looks like my small army calls,” the tutor tells him with a smile. She rises to join the children and help them, but Rhys is floored when she leans in and brushes a quick kiss to his cheek, stopping his heart.

***

“What on Earth are you two doing?” Amren growls, startling the children from where they sit amongst Feyre and Rhys.

“Uh, oh,” Elle’s face is pale as she looks towards Rhys and Feyre for support. Her eyes are wide with surprise. “It’s a witch! And she’s _angry_.”

Feyre bites her lip to fight off the laughter that threatens; Rhys, on the other hand, chuckles, sending a meaningful look in his Head of Staff’s direction. The king is a brave man to laugh in the face of such wrath. Amren practically vibrates with her fury, and she has a man with her, who shares a similar smile to Feyre's. She thinks his name is Varian.

Amren’s pale eyes drag across the room to take in the scene before her; they linger on Feyre before landing on Rhys. Her expression brings the king to silence.

“You,” the woman’s voice is chipped ice when she speaks to her king, aiming one tapered finger in his direction, “are supposed to be in the front, giving a speech.”

Rhys has the sense to look guilty; he scratches the back of his head, searching for a reasonable explanation for skipping out on his duties again. His eyes flick towards Feyre, then dart away as he realizes his mistake. “I, uh, lost track of time?”

Amren snorts. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately, haven’t you?”

“Sh—oot,” Rhys manages to correct himself in just the nick of time.

Varian gives Anne a nod, and the caretaker takes the cue and beings to usher the children out of the room, allowing the royal entourage some privacy. Elle looks willing to go, made nervous by the _witch_ ; Feyre misses them immediately.

Rhys rises from his seat, “Well, let’s get to it then. I’ll give them all my very best apologies.”

“The speech is over,” Amren growls. Rhys’s expression asks for an explanation, and his Head of Staff snorts at him. “Your sister was kind enough to take your place, but be warned she’s scheming up ways to repay you.”

“Fuck,” Rhys swears softly, now out of ear reach of the children. “Why didn’t someone come and get me?”

Feyre watches as Amren goes deathly still, glaring. “Why weren’t you where you were supposed to be—with who you were supposed to be with?”

The woman gives Feyre a meaningful look, and it causes the tutor to flush. Varian looks a little surprised at the revelation as if its something he hadn't noticed before; Feyre can’t blame him. He’s only here because he’s protecting one of the suitors, Cresseida. This will be important news for the princess to hear.

Rhys’s eyes flash in warning, “Be mindful of how you speak to me. I am your king.”

A scoff. Ameren lifts her head high, managing to look down her nose at Rhys despite the height difference, “Then act like it.”

***

The four of them make their way back towards the cars in silence. Varian wisely lingers to the back of the group, and Feyre is inclined to do the same. Yet, Rhys seems intent on maintaining his pace to stay at her side, walking slower than his long legs would usually take him.

He sends her a shy smile, and Feyre isn’t able to do anything other than return it. Amren must catch them because she huffs loudly and pointedly. The pair immediately share a guilty look. Two cars have stayed back; the rest already beginning the ascent up the mountain with the rest of the party.

Feyre can’t fight the feeling that the other women have probably noticed her absence. She should really make more of an effort to stay away from the king. _He’s getting married_ , she has to remind herself. Even if Rhys is happy to send her smiles and flirty banter, there’s a law that dictates he’s _very_ unavailable.

Amren hops into the car with Rhys and a relieved looking Cassian. It leaves Feyre alone with Varian; he holds the car door open for her like a pure gentleman, gets in on the other side. For most of the ride, the two of them remain silent, and Feyre uses the time to drink in the sight of the countryside in the setting sun. Veritas’s snow-covered fields are breathtaking in the orange light.

“Is something going on between you and the king?” Varian finally breaks the silence as they pull onto the stone drive of the Castle of Dreams. It’s been a long day, and Feyre finds herself overcome with relief to be returning home.

Home. When had that happened?

Feyre meets Varian’s eye. He observes her, likely looking for clues as to whether other not she tells him the truth; he’s only looking out for his princess, like any loyal staff of a royal family would do.

“No,” Feyre tells Varian. His light blue eyes seem satisfied with the response. When he climbs out of the car to get the door for them, Feyre sags with relief that he didn’t see through her façade.

Because Saoirse was right; there’s definitely something going on between her and the king, Feyre just isn’t sure what it is yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative summary: Feysand being cute with kids?


	6. PART SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d like to kiss her, he thinks. Here, hidden behind the hedges, quiet and sweet. He’d like to be able to kiss her in public, too. In front of his family. His friends. His country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting a bit earlier than usual. I don't know about you all, but it's been one hell of a week. Fluff always help, yeah?
> 
> PS- I have no regrets.

**PART SIX**

The Winter Solstice celebrations go by without much further notice, and Feyre uses the peace and quiet that follows to work on her art. In the mornings, she works with the Princess, coming up with activities to keep both of them busy and dodging Saoirse’s pointed comments about her brother. Feyre’s careful not to react to any of them, and she’s even more cautious about staying out of the king’s way. It’s cowardly; she knows. But he could hardly blame her for hiding from him. All those women trailing after him are intimidating to Feyre, and Amren is just fucking terrifying.

In the afternoons, Princess Saoirse has to attend to her royal duties, hosting tea with the women, and making civil conversation. Feyre isn’t required to go to those events now that Madja, the princess’s governess, has returned. It leaves Feyre with free afternoons, and Feyre uses that time to do what she loves best: paint.

“What are you doing?” A familiar voice asks Feyre, purring in her ear as she dabs the blue paint onto the canvas. The artist jumps in her seat, and the motion drags the paintbrush. Feyre frowns at the damage, then glares at the King of Prythian.

Rhysand looks positively stunning in a black, warm trench coat and blue scarf; it’s horribly unfair of him to look so good with such ease. His violet eyes sparkle like stars, and Feyre can’t help but think she’d like to have a chance to try and paint them. It would take her hours to find the right color for his irises, but she’s up for the challenge.

“Don’t you ever work?” Feyre hisses at him instead of answering. Rhys’s smile is blinding.

“All of the time,” the king promises, smiling still. “ _Except_ for when I’m on vacation.”

Feyre groans, examining the damage to her painting. It’s salvageable. She’s only playing at being irritable. “And when does your vacation end exactly?”

She asks the question more or less to prepare herself for his departure; Feyre will be disappointed to see Rhys go. It’s something she realized at the orphanage when they spent the day fawning over children and sharing secret smiles. How very inconvenient a time to grasp that she’ll _miss him_.

“Ready to be rid of me so soon, darling?” Rhys pretends to be outraged. “I thought you enjoyed my company?”

“Just making plans for the party that Saoirse and I are going to throw in your absence,” Feyre explains lightly, even as she waits eagerly for the answer—and dreads it just the same.

“Well, mark your calendar, darling,” Rhys leans in close to her stool, meeting her eyes. He's so _close._ Feyre is hit with proximity and his citrus scent all at once. It's a lot to deal with.

“I’ll leave just after the new year," the king says, holding her gaze, "and all my delightful suitors will be going with me. Unless I manage to trip and fall in love with one of them before then.”

His sigh is long and drawn out; Feyre stares at her pallet of colors to hide the hurt she feels at the thought. _Rhys is getting married._ She's reminded of the fact, again.

“Oh,” is all Feyre can come up with in reply. That’s so soon, she thinks, and while Feyre will be glad to be rid of the vipers in the castle, longing strikes her in the heart at the thought of no longer running into Rhys in the halls, of not being able to exchange their typical, witty banter. He’ll be gone. 

Some of her thoughts must show on her face because Rhys’s expression falls as well. Looking at her, those violet eyes go soft with understanding, and the slightest hint of a frown tug at the corners of that arrogant mouth of his. He looks down at the painting, avoiding her gaze. She’s both appreciative and regretful for the loss of eye contact.

“I ruined it, didn’t I?” Rhys mourns the painting, one finger hovering just above the paint smear, and Feyre thinks that perhaps, the king isn't just upset over the damage.

The tutor takes a moment to look at the canvas with him, soaking in the warmth of his body hit. She hadn't realized just how damn cold it was outside until Rhys was in her space and keeping her warm. The painting is simple, a landscape depiction of the snow-covered hedges, glowing in the afternoon rays of light. 

Feyre nudges the king with her shoulder to try and lighten both of their downtrodden moods. The contact is like lightning, warmth spreading across her skin and trailing upwards to heat her cheeks. “Fear not, Your Majesty. There’s a solution to every problem.”

She looks up to him, sharing a smile, and Feyre’s breath catches as Rhys looks up at her, too, eyes glowing with some indescribable emotion. He smiles softly at her, and says, “Indeed there is. And I’m going to find it.”

***

Feyre is nearly asleep when there’s knocking at her door. She groans, unwilling to leave her comfortable position to get out of the bed. At the sound of another rap, the woman slides deeper under the covers, willing the noise to go away. The last time she opened her bedroom door in the middle of the night, it was the king, and she wasn’t wearing pants. Lesson learned. Whoever they are can just come back in the morning.

Then Feyre hears the distinct sound of her lock clicking open and the creaky doorknob turning. She tries not to panic, but she fails because _someone is breaking into her room._ She waits and prays; maybe they’ll find what they’re looking for and just go away?

“By the mother,” Princess Saoirse swears, turning the lamplight on and blinding Feyre, “you can’t _possibly_ be sleeping. We barely did anything _all_ day. It was so _boring_ I nearly died.”

Feyre sits upright quickly, heart racing. She has to wonder just how much trouble she’ll get in if she chokes the princess. It’s probably only a small charge of treason. She narrows her eyes at Saoirse, hissing, “How did you get in here?”

Saoirse rolls her eyes, clearly without the time to put up with Feyre’s questions. The princess holds out a delicate-looking key tied to a silk ribbon; she shrugs. “With a key, of course.”

“You have a key?” Feyre cries, throwing her covers and aside and swinging her legs from the bed. “You have a _key_ to my room?”

Another eye roll. “I have a key to _all_ the rooms; yours isn't special. It’s a skeleton key,” Saoirse eyes Feyre carefully. “You do know what that is, right? You have them back home?”

“I—yes. I’m from America, Sersh, not the Middle Ages,” Feyre growls, reaching for her robe. The castle gets cold at night, and it feels a little weird to talk to her student in her pajamas.

“You say that to me as if they aren’t synonymous,” the princess flips her inky hair over one shoulder. Feyre glares at the rotten little girl.

“Says the _Princess_ of a whole country,” Feyre points out. Yet, Saoirse doesn’t appear to care; the little girl turns on her silk slippers and begins to make her way down the hallway, leaving without an explanation. Feyre follows, as Saoirse probably hoped she would. It’s a move the student learned from her very own teacher.

“Where are you going? Why did you wake me up?” Feyre interrogates.

“Hush, people are sleeping, Feyre,” the princess chides her. Feyre’s mouth falls open in astonishment at being chastised by a little girl.

“ _I was sleeping_ ,” Feyre tells the princess, but Saoirse merely rounds the corner and disappears from sight. With a groan, the woman gives chase. The princess is a very quick study.

“Well, if I left you to your sleep, you’d miss out on all the fun,” Saoirse tells her ominously. “Would you like to go back to bed? I suppose I can fill you in later.”

The tutor’s interest is immediately piqued. “Miss out on what? It’s the middle of the night.”

The princess's smile is full of trouble, a mirror of Cassian’s shit-eating grin. Maybe they should keep them apart in the future. “Follow me and find out.”

***

Amren decided to stay up late and get some reading done. The twilight hours seemed to be the only time for her to do anything for her own pleasure without having to worry about some idiot or another interrupting her and asking stupid questions.

Except perhaps not, she thinks, as Varian takes the armchair beside her, smiling cheekily in her direction.

“Bodyguard,” Amren drawls, turning a page even though she hasn’t finished reading the one she’s on. It’s for effect.

“Head of Staff,” he says, and then Varian settles into his chair, pulling out a book of his own.

“What are you doing here, bodyguard?” Amren asks at last; she peers up at the man from over the rims of her glasses. At night, she ditches the contacts. “Shouldn’t you be off…” A pause for effect. “Guarding?”

“Cresseida hardly needs me to watch her as she sleeps,” Varian muses. He turns a page. Amren wonders if it’s also for effect. “So, I’m here for the same reason as you: to get some peace and quiet.”

The woman watches him for a moment until Varian smiles and meets her gaze out of the corner of his eye. Amren looks away quickly, placing her attention back on the Latin script before her. She does love the challenge of dead languages.

“Indeed,” she says after a little while, flipping the next page because she’s finished reading it. No need to put on a show.

***

Feyre follows her charge through the maze of halls that makes up the Castle of Dreams. She’s never been to the wing that Saoirse leads her to, and Feyre finds herself more than a little lost amongst the unfamiliar stained glass windows and gilded halls. The marble floor seems to go on a for miles. Just how big is this place?

Then with a start, Feyre realizes where it is they are headed; Saoirse is leading her towards the king’s wing of the palace. Where Rhys lives. 

Feyre hesitates, looking nervously in the direction of Princess Saoirse. The little girl isn’t fazed by encroaching on her brother’s personal suite at all; likely, she does so often and without permission, knowing Sersh. It’s the way of little sister’s; Feyre would know.

“Are you sure we’re supposed to be here?” Feyre asks Saoirse, who does an excellent Morrigan impersonation and rolls her eyes at her tutor. Feyre has a feeling the governess wouldn’t appreciate the display of attitude. Madja has turned out to be a fierce older woman, scolding both Feyre and Saoirse often for their bad behaviors and language. The governess has promised Feyre that she will break the tutor of all her _American_ habits. Whatever that means.

“This is my home,” Saoirse tells Feyre in a voice that leaves no questions. “I live here, and I can damn well go where I please.” Her sharp eyes slide to Feyre, impish. “Why? Are you nervous? Afraid you see something you don’t like?”

Saoirse groans, immediately regretting her words; her freckled nose wrinkles in dismay. “Ugh. Or worse: you’re afraid you’ll see something you _do_ like—Ew! Gross!”

Feyre is too amused to be embarrassed. She bursts into laughter, and the sound echoes through the halls. Saoirse shakes her head furiously as if by doing so, she might be able to erase the revelation from her mind. 

“Will you tell me _now_ what we’re doing?” Feyre manages to say through her smile. The princess glares. 

“Look for yourself!” Saoirse nods out the window they’ve just reached. “I’m too nauseous to talk to you anymore.”

Feyre is skeptical that she’s about to find any sort of explanation outside through a window, but she follows the princess’s orders and closes the distance between herself and the frosted panes of glass. The vast bay window looks out over a courtyard that Feyre hasn’t come across yet in her painting adventures; the lawn and hedges are immaculate, like the rest of the palace property, wrapped in a thick, snowy blanket for the winter. A fountain sits as the centerpiece, large and imposing, drained to survive in the icy winter weather that Castle of Dream’s experiences this time of the year.

Someone’s draped lights here, as well; although, they’re wobbly and unevenly done in places. This wasn’t done by the palace gardener then. Someone else did this work, in a rush because of the cold wind.

A howl catches Feyre’s attention, and she locates its source just in time to watch as Cassian throws something, face fiercely determined. It's the face Feyre imagines he'd make going into battle, fighting off evil warlords to protect his people and country. Prythians sure are an intense breed of human.

There’s a squawk as the snowball hits its target, and Feyre searches quickly to find where it went, curious. Rhys stands opposite his friend, a glare on his face and snow dripping from his inky locks of hair. Azriel snickers nearby, hiding behind a stone wall for protection. He tosses a snowball of his own soon after, also aimed for the king. Another cry of outrage. 

Feyre can only come to one conclusion: King Rhysand of Velaris is having a snowball fight. In the middle of the night with his two best friends. 

Saoirse laughs at the expression on Feyre’s face. The tutor looks at the girl, asking, “Do they do this often?”

“Only every year, just before the New Year. But they’re a little late this year because my brother’s been too busy _flirting_ ,” the princess’s look is pointed, but Feyre just ignores her. 

“Aren’t you offended they don’t invite you?” Feyre changes the subject quickly, uneager to discuss the matter with her student.

“Extremely,” Saoirse says, but then her face turns positively malicious. “Which is why I crash it every year. Usually, they pummel me into the ground, but this year, I’ll have back up.”

When Feyre doesn't appear to understand, the princess wiggles her eyebrows. Understanding, Feyre shakes her head in disagreement, “I wouldn’t want to intrude. This seems like a family thing.”

That earns an eye roll, “Don’t be daft— you are family now, Feyre _darling_.”

Saoirse turns and leaves before the tutor can come up with a defense for herself. With a sigh, Feyre follows after her. 

***

The Lady Morrigan Verity, future Duchess of Stowrawdon, has always been a night owl. It’s something about her that always used to infuriate her father, especially while she was growing up. The Duke Keir Verity of Stowrawdon had particular goals in mind for his daughter, and he expected his only child to be complicit in those goals. Yet, Mor proved to be every ounce the free-spirit. It created much strife between her and her father.

The Duke always wanted Morrigan to marry well, to someone wealthy and attractive and successful. He had his wife, the Duchess, plan garden parties and galas to network, to find the right match, and they did. His name was Eris, future Count of Somewhere or Another; Morrigan had never bothered to learn.

Because Mor preferred a different kind of social life. She liked to go out and dance, have fun, and meet new people. In University, Mor was quite the socialite, just not in the way that the Duke and Duchess wanted her to be.

She ended up disowned by her parents; imagine their outrage when her cousin, the Prince, and Heir to the Throne, took her in, placed her within his council, and made her more powerful than either of them could ever hope to be. Lady Morrigan of Stowrawdon worked for the King of Prythian, directly at his side, while her parents wasted away in their country home, unwelcome amongst their peers.

That was what had her awake now; work, anyway. The Castle of Dreams experienced some turnover during the holidays, as contracts ended and staff moved on, and now it was time to find new people to fill them. It took an army to care for the old palace that they lived in; Mor and Amren couldn’t do it all themselves, though how they tried.

It wasn’t too long ago that Mor was looking through resumes for a new art tutor for Saoirse, and she’d stumbled upon a less than perfect resume for a young New York artist, fresh out of college. Feyre. Perhaps siding a bit on the underqualified, Morrigan had liked her immediately on paper, even more so through their interviews. She was proof that not everything was about _qualifications_.

But none of these new people were proving to be a Feyre.

With a sigh, the blonde leaned back into her chair, stretching her arms out over her head. Mor needed some tea—and some food. She was suddenly starving. The whole day had been wasted fussing about the suitors and having to entertain them. She wished they’d all give up and go home; her cousin only had eyes for Feyre. Anyone could see that. It was a problematic decision of his, but it was the truth.

Speaking of Rhys, Mor wondered if he’d returned yet from his venture into the city a few hours away. It had been for “royal business,” Rhys had told her, but the king had also once used the term in reference to needing to use the bathroom; so, he wasn’t a very reliable source. It was probably just a fancy excuse for Rhys to hole up in his room and hide. Again.

According to one of the valets, though, the King of Prythian had gone to the city to meet with lawyers. Mor really wanted to know what it was her cousin was up to.

After a few more attempts at reading applications, Morrigan decides to hit the kitchen and see what was left behind from dinner. Nuala and Cer were always good about making sure there were snacks around for them. The twins took outstanding care of the family.

In the end, the only thing that is left that the lady finds appetizing is a pie set aside for tomorrow. It’s not a healthy decision, but that’s never been Mor’s way. Tomorrow she’ll beg forgiveness of the kitchen staff, but they’re used to her by now. There’s probably a spare around somewhere, hidden where she can’t find it.

A set of slippered footsteps announces someone else’s arrival; Mor half expects it to be that troublesome king of hers, but she’s pleasantly surprised when it isn’t.

“Oh! I suppose I’m busted now, aren’t I?” a lilting voice asks.

Mor is amused to find Vassa standing in the doorway, looking a little embarrassed and clutching a pink silk robe to her body. It’s a good color on her, Mor thinks. It brings out her hair. On Mor, the color always turned her splotchy and pale. 

Mor just grins, procuring another fork out of thin air and waving it towards the other woman. The princess smiles shyly, and for a second, it looks like Vassa might turn and run for the hills, which would disappoint Mor greatly. She’s actually quite fond of Vassa. If the other suitors would just leave, Mor wouldn’t mind spending some time with the Princess and getting to know her. She’s clever—and funny.

So, Lady Morrigan is pleased when Princess Vassa plops into the stool across from her and takes the fork from Mor’s hands. Her fingers just barely grazing the other woman’s. 

“What kind is it?” Vassa asks in that very alluring, lilting accent. 

“Chocolate,” Mor tells her around a bite. She flushes immediately; it’s not very future-Duchess-like to talk with one’s mouth full.

Vassa’s smile is at once both bright and warmhearted. “My favorite!”

***

Rhys isn’t expecting the next hit to come from behind him, but it does, hitting him square in the back. The blow knocks the air from his lungs and nearly sends the King of Prythian tumbling into the snow beneath him. 

It could only mean one thing. 

“Interloper!” Rhys announces with a yell. Cassian roars, ready for battle, and Azriel laughs that rare full laugh of his. They’ve been waiting for her; it’s honestly become their favorite part of the game.

It’s been too long since they did this last. They skipped the year prior, too deep in mourning to have any fun in the snow. Rhys is happy to see the tradition back in action.

The king spins on his heels, advancing in the direction the attack came from. That evil little sister of his was out there somewhere. Likely hiding amongst the tall hedges and making use of her height, Rhys guessed. He heads for her now, gathering snow and forming it into a ball. 

Then another shot hits him on the side of his face, square in the jaw. He yells as the cold substance makes contact with his flushed skin. Saoirse giggles and gives away her position. She’s to his right, hiding behind the fountain. Not to his front. Curious.

“This way!” Rhys tells his friends, his brothers. They laugh, clearly enjoying themselves. It’s a standing tradition of at least eight years that the snow wars end with the defeat of the Great and Evil Saoirse. 

His brothers flank him on either side, trailing after their king to catch Saoirse outnumbered. The snow crunches just ahead of him; they’ve got her now. Rhys raises his throwing arm, preparing to wallop his little sister. Cassian and Azriel follow suit. There's no mercy in war.

But before they can take action, Rhys takes another hit, to his back as before. The surprise makes him drop his weapon, and it disintegrates into the snowy ground beneath. Another hits Cassian in the back of the head. Azriel takes a third to his shoulder, gasping in surprise. 

Saoirse appears then, from behind the fountain in front of them, just as Cassian and Azriel search for her behind their position. She hits them from her angle, laughing in delight. Rhys figures out what is going on just in time to hear a familiar, light laugh that tugs at his heartstrings. _Feyre_.

“The enemy brought reinforcements!” Azriel cries as he takes a blow to the face; the snow muffles the last word, and Cassian ducks behind a wall just in time to miss the two shots aimed for his person. Every man for themselves then.

Chaos ensues; snow flying from all directions. Rhys makes use of the mayhem to head back for his earlier destination, and his brothers turn back to Saoirse, who squeals in delight. 

Rhys bobs and weaves his way through the courtyard, narrowly missing another hit to his face. Then one to his shoulder. Feyre’s golden-brown hair flashes around the corner of a tall hedge, confirming her locations and giggling as she manages to avoid yet another one of his counters. She’s a wily thing, their art tutor.

At last, Rhys flies around the corner, snowball raised to toss at Feyre, but the woman moves to attack at the same time. They collide, and the power of Rhys’s larger frame overpowers Feyre’s momentum easily, knocking the woman backward. When the tutor begins to fall, she yelps in surprise and reaches for the closest thing to stop her descent into the snow—Rhys.

Yet, the king falls with her, unprepared, and they both topple to the snow. 

The king's grin could only be described as feline as he looks down at Feyre, breathless and flushed beneath him. It’s giving him some naughty ideas. For a moment, they stare at one another, as they seem quite apt to do.

“Prick,” Feyre says to him with a grin. She must see the dirty thoughts swirling around in his head; Rhys knows he is no good at keeping his thoughts from her. Feyre has a strange knack for reading his mind, for predicting his moods. It's... unfathomable, coming from someone he's known such a short time. It's exhilarating.

The woman manages to flick Rhys's nose from her position, pinned beneath him, and he laughs, shaking the snow from his hair so that it falls into her face. Feyre squeals.

He’d like to kiss her, he thinks. Here, hidden behind the hedges, quiet and sweet. He’d like to be able to kiss her in public, too. In front of his family. His friends. His country.

“Darling,” Rhys purrs. His words come out low and husky; this close in proximity to each other, Feyre’s shiver is unmistakable. It sets his every nerve aflame. Those stormy eyes drop to his lips, and Rhys knows he’s a goner.

“Your Majesty!” Azriel declares from the other side of the hedge; anyone could hear the smile in his brother’s voice, “We’ve managed to detain the interloper!”

But Rhys doesn’t hear a word his brother says; he only has eyes and ears for Feyre. The king leans into what little space they share, brushes a barely-there kiss to her lips. Feyre goes still and tense. Rhys immediately takes that as a bad sign and backtracks; he begins to pull away from her. Fuck.

But something snaps Feyre into action as he retreats; she reaches out for Rhys just as he moves away, wrapping a cold, slightly damp mitten around the back of his neck and tugging him back down towards her. Before the king’s brain has any chance to catch up, Feyre’s lips glide across his own; this time with a little more pressure and insistence.

The embarrassing noise Rhys makes in the back of his throat will haunt him for days, but right now, the king could care less. He places a hand against the side of her face, uses the other to keep from crushing her beneath him. Feyre hums into the embrace, and Rhys takes the cue to flick his tongue along the seam of her lips, to ask for more. She moans, and Rhys thinks that he’d very much like to do this for a very, very long time.

“Fuck!” Feyre swears suddenly, breaking away from a very startled Rhys, and backing away from him with wide eyes. “Shit! I’m so sorry.”

Rhys isn’t sure how to respond to that, but her apologies cause the happy grin plastered on his face to fade away. Does she regret her decision so quickly?

Of course, she does, Rhys thinks. Why would the magnificent and talented Feyre Archeron want anything to do with him?

“Everything alright over here?” Cassian drawls, head peeking around the corner of the bushes like some kind of comedy. His eyes glint with trouble, and Rhys prays that he doesn’t find himself alone with his bodyguard any time soon.

“It would appear your King has been defeated,” Saoirse drawls as she rounds the corner with Azriel. She’s covered in snow, not that Azriel looks much better. “Alas, my death was not in vain.”

Feyre laughs from where she’s seated in the snow, but the sound comes out a little shaky. Rhys tries to catch her eye, but the woman is very good at avoiding it.

Feyre’s face is flushed red; yet, the others will likely credit it to the cold night air. Only Rhys knows the truth.

“I suppose we should all get inside now before someone gets sick.” The tutor tells them.

Saoirse rolls her eyes, aims an impetuous look in Rhys’s direction, “She’s almost a bigger mother hen than _you_. Seriously, a match made in heaven!”

The princess complains, spinning away from them and heading inside. Cassian and Azriel share a silent look, perfected from years working side by side in the shadows of royals, and then they trail after the princess, too. Perhaps, they were able to read the mood between Feyre and Rhys better than he thought.

The king drags himself from out of the snow, and then he offers a hand to Feyre to assist her. The woman looks as if she might decline, but in the end, she takes his hands in hers, allowing him to lift her slender frame from the ground. It brings their faces close again, and despite the less than stellar reaction the last two times, Rhys dreams of pressing his lips to hers.

What can he say? He’s a glutton for punishment.

Feyre clears her throat awkwardly. It’s clear she doesn’t know what to do or say.

“After my lady,” Rhys sketches a bow, and Feyre snorts. So not all is lost at least.

“Your Majesty,” the tutor curtseys in response. The motion is fluid and graceful; someone’s been practicing. Rhys’s smile is too big for his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My math says that the first time Saoirse crashes the Bat Boys' snow wars, she's about four years old. And if that isn't the cutest shit I've ever pictured in my mind, then I don't know what is.


	7. PART SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The note is a summons. Addressed to Her Highness’s Royal Arts Tutor from His Majesty, King Rhysand Velaris of Prythian.
> 
> It’s all so formal; it makes Feyre nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two posts in one week because we deserve it!
> 
> Also, your reactions were LOVELY to the last chapter. Happy you all are enjoying it so much!!

**PART SEVEN**

They make their way back into the castle, and Feyre has every intention of running for her bedroom as soon as possible. Fuck propriety; _she kissed the king_. Then Saoirse and Cassian declare that it is time for hot chocolate and foil her plans for escape.

Rhys stays close to her side throughout the journey across the palace. His arm brushes with hers as they go, setting fire to her cheeks, and those deep ocean blues watch her closely with abandon. It's a lot for her to handle. When Feyre meets his watchful gaze, the king’s smile is dopey if uncertain; Feyre doesn’t know what to do with that information.

God—she _kissed him._ The fucking King of Prythian. What was she thinking? It was so stupid. He was getting married! To—someone. Was that supposed to be her? _Please_. She wasn’t nobility, and she had very little to offer the beautiful little country that had snuck in and stolen her heart when she wasn’t looking. Rhys wasn’t about to marry _her_.

But—he’d kissed her first. And then, he’d kissed her back, eagerly.

Feyre can’t help but replay the little sound he’d made in the back of his throat, or how he’d cupped her face and pulled her close, smiling into the kiss. It really had been one hell of a kiss, before Feyre went and spoiled it.

Rhys reaches out suddenly and grabs her by the elbow. It surprises Feyre, the forwardness; Rhys isn’t the type to use physical means to get _anyone’s_ attention, much less a woman's. When Feyre realizes she was about to walk face-first into a marble column in the great hall, she blushes furiously. The king grins at her, leaning in and whispering in her ear.

“Careful, Lady Faerie,” Rhys purrs, and Feyre thinks she’ll never live down the nickname. “We wouldn’t want to break that pretty little nose of yours. Besides, I’m right here—there’s no need to daydream about me.”

Feyre shrugs out of his grip quickly; her eyes throw daggers at him. “Insufferable prick.”

Rhys just chuckles, unaffected by her name-calling. Feyre is starting to think that he likes it.

***

“Aw,” Saoirse laments when they enter the kitchen. “There was _pie_ , and some _ate it all.”_

Cassian shares a frown with his adopted sibling. “We must find the offenders at once.”

Rhys’s little sister nods furiously. The two of them look around as if they might be able to find a clue and solve their little mystery. The king already knows that if a pie is involved—chocolate pie if the remnants were to be believed—then his cousin, Mor, and her sweet tooth were involved.

“Two forks,” Cassian observes. Interesting. The guard looks to Saoirse seriously. “We have two traitors.”

“We must throw them in the dungeons at once,” the little princess hisses. Feyre giggles. It draws his eye; Rhys has really grown quite fond of the sound.

“I know where Nuala keeps the spare,” Azriel informs the party. Saoirse and Cassian rejoice, begging their partner in crime to reveal his secrets. The only one with a bigger sweet tooth than Morrigan is Azriel. It takes all of a second for the man to disappear and reappear, pie in hand. It’s like the shadows work for him sometimes.

“Looks like we’ll need to make different plans for dessert tomorrow,” Feyre remarks, accepting a fork from Rhys’s sister and settling into a seat at the table.

Rhys takes the seat beside the tutor quickly; he can’t manage to stay away from the woman, even as she avoids his gaze, even as she kisses him and then retracts it immediately.

He needs to talk to her about that, but Rhys, for once, can’t find the right words. Even if he did know what to say, now wouldn’t be the time. Here, in front of his brothers and sister. Feyre offers Rhys a fork, and he is elated to have even a brief ounce of her attention directed at him. He’s like a lost puppy, begging for affections. The king doesn’t know what has overcome him; all at once, he’s a teenager again, with a big fat crush on a pretty girl he doesn’t stand a chance with.

Except, Rhys thinks he might—have a chance that is.

***

The maid, Alis, delivers a note to Feyre the next morning. It’s closed with wax pressed with the King’s seal, and it actually comes on a silver fucking platter. Feyre tries to hide her fear and her excitement as she accepts the note, resists the urge to open it immediately. She’s dying to know what it says.

Last night, Feyre escaped from the group as soon as there was a window, torn between wanting to spend more time with Rhys and desiring to hide her face forever. It was confusing; she needed to speak with Rhys, but Feyre was afraid.

Saoirse is nearby, pretending to read her new book. Her glacier blue eyes miss nothing, and the tiniest of smiles plays at the student’s lips.

“Whatcha got there?” The girl asks, innocently.

Feyre shoots her a look. “If I’m lucky, its permission to send you very, very far away from here.”

“But that would mean you’d be out of a job,” the princess snorts. “Besides, you would miss me _terribly_.”

Feyre sends her charge a wicked smile. “Maybe I’ll just replace you with your brother. He could use to learn a thing or two about art.”

“Ew,” Saoirse says. It’s her typical answer about her brother. Anyone can see that the siblings love each other, would go to the ends of the earth for one another. They just can’t let anyone actually hear them say as much.

***

When the knock comes, Rhys heaves a heavy sigh. He knew it was a bad idea to go here, rather than his secluded study in one of the towers; he’d never get any work done here where people could find him. Vacation or not, the king is always on duty. He’d be able to enjoy his holiday more, though, if he could only find some time to actually work.

“Come in,” he says, praying to the Mother that whoever walks through that door isn’t Ianthe. Rhys doesn’t think he’d survive another encounter with the viper.

His prayers are answered when Princess Vassa enters the room. He likes Vassa.

Rhys eyes the woman who’s come to Prythian for a chance to be his queen. Dressed in an elegant cream-colored sheath, the woman definitely looks the part, and her kind smiles are promising. Rhys thinks they would get along well enough, and they’d have attractive children. Vassa would make an excellent queen.

Rhys frowns; he can’t believe he’s even entertaining the idea.

The king knows who else would make a good queen, but that train of thought is only going to get him in trouble.

“Oh, that’s not a promising expression,” the woman teases as she stops before his desk. Her bright blue eyes sparkle at him. “Maybe I should consider coming back another time.”

“No, no,” Rhys waves. “I apologize. I have got a lot on my plate.”

“I’d say,” Vassa agrees with a smile. “That Ianthe is a real gem.”

The king can’t hide his grimace at the mention of his number one tormentor. He was afraid that was why Vassa had come to visit; Rhys knew Ianthe was... troublesome to the other suitors. It was only a matter of time before one of the women came forward about it.

Perhaps a royal complaint would be enough to send her away. Rhys would have to ask Amren.

“Forgive me,” Rhys begins, forming an apologetic smile. “I really must get some work done. Did you need my help with something?”

He’d have more done by now if he could forget about kissing Feyre last night, forget about the feeling of her lips on his, and stop torturing himself over the noise she got out of him—

“Right. Full plate.” Vassa interrupts his train of thought before he can spiral too far. The princess blushes prettily. “Well, I’ve got good news for you. I’m here to take one thing off of your plate. _And_ to ask for a favor.”

“Do tell, Your Highness.” Rhys is very, very curious to know the answer.

***

The note is a summons. Addressed to Her Highness’s Royal Arts Tutor from His Majesty, King Rhysand Velaris of Prythian.

It’s all so formal; it makes Feyre nervous.

It’s barely been a day since she last saw Rhys, hasn’t seen him since she—they—kissed. Feyre’s thought about it often, though. More often than she’d like to admit. It’s a little embarrassing, honestly; Feyre totally freaked out. She— _apologized_.

Fuck, she thinks. She’s made such a fool of herself. Way to send mixed signals, Feyre.

She needs to talk to him. It looks like she has just the chance to do so.

The note says to meet His Majesty, King Rhysand, in his office at 2 o’clock sharp for her _appointment_. She spends all day fussing over it, watching the clock and getting no work done. Feyre’s relieved when Saoirse slips away to her princess duties with Madja. The king's little sister has been watching her closely, dying for the opportunity to interrogate her teacher or steal the note more like.

Feyre is so distressed that by 1:45, she’s already standing outside the grand double doors, staring into the ornate pattern carved into the wood. She wonders at just how old these doors are, who toiled over for them for hours, cutting all manner of shapes. The depiction resembles the view outside the castle windows, of a night sky blanketing the mountaintops.

“Do you typically stand so close to doors?” The king asks, amused.

Feyre startles at his voice, turning around to find Rhys watching her fondly.

“I was admiring it,” Feyre tells him, flushing.

Rhys’s expression is soft before he leans into her space, smiling wickedly in her direction. “Well, now I’m here, Feyre Darling. No need to admire _doors_.”

“Prick,” Feyre tells him, but the insult comes out weakly. He’s so _close_.

The king opens the doors and holds it for Feyre, leaving her stunned by the loss of his nearness. It seems as if that should be the other way around, that the tutor ought to hold the door for the _king_. Yet, there’s no staff here, and the king seems perfectly content to take care of himself.

His Majesty’s office is grandeur. The grand oak desk is covered in large, aged books and stacks of messy paperwork. It definitely doesn’t match the man in front of her, the king, in his clean-cut suit and perfectly swept hair, and yet, it matches Rhys.

Rhys settles into his chair and motions for Feyre to do the same. The tutor takes her seat gingerly, perches herself on the end of it.

“Are you—firing me?” Feyre blurts out before she can think better of it. Shit.

The king looks astonished. “Why on Earth would I do that?”

Before Feyre can answer, understanding dawns on his face. “Oh,” is all he says.

“I really am—”

Rhys’s sigh interrupts her next words. “ _Please_ don’t apologize again. It’s not good for my self-esteem. Women aren’t supposed to apologize when you kiss them.”

“Sorry,” Feyre says, and then she winces. Rhys’s laugh is strained. They fall into silence, and Feyre can't manage to meet the king's eye.

“I, for one, am not sorry,” the king continues as if it pains him. “However, if you really are then—”

“I’m not,” Feyre cuts him off quickly; she needed to say as much anyway, needed to admit it. She’s probably just broken about a hundred etiquette rules but interrupting him, but she doesn’t think that Rhys will hold it against her.

Rhys sends her a broad smile at the admission.

“Excellent,” he says, “because I was hoping you’d join me this afternoon.”

“To do what?” Feyre asks.

“It’s a surprise.”

***

It was a spur of the moment decision, but Rhys didn’t regret a thing. How could he when Feyre’s face breaks into a delighted and surprised smile at the sight of the sleigh pulling up to the castle grounds, two sturdy Prythian horses pulling it along.

Rhys had always loved to go on sleigh rides. It had been something of a favorite pastime for him and his mother, Saoirse, too, after she was born.

“ _Rhys,_ ” Feyre breathes his name. He relishes the sound.

Rhys extends his hand towards the woman, offering to help her into the sleigh. He smiles as the tutor eyes him warily, uncomfortable with the chivalry.

“After you, Lady Faerie,” he tells her, and Feyre rolls her eyes.

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” she asks at last.

“Never,” Rhys promises.

The king already arranged for the driver to take them on a ride through the property, but at the last minute, Feyre mentions that she'd like to see the children at the orphanage. Without wasting a second, Rhys relays the order to the driver and leans back in his seat to smile at Feyre.

She blushes deeply, ducking her head to hide behind her hair. Rhys tucks the strands back immediately, not wanting to miss her expressions for a moment.

For the next few hours, the king has Feyre all to himself. No distractions. No responsibilities. No Amren. He’s elated, and he plans to make good use of it.

***

“Why did you apologize?” Rhys asks quietly. His voice is whisper-soft so the driver won’t hear.

Feyre looks to him in surprise. She knows exactly what he’s talking about, but she’s surprised that Rhys would bring that up right now. They already acknowledged that she wasn't. Sorry, that is.

“What?” Feyre asks.

“Afterward,” Rhys says, vaguely. “You told me you were sorry, with some very entertaining expletives. If you aren’t, then why apologize?”

“I apologized because I guess, I _was_ a little sorry,” Feyre begins, bushing. Rhys goes still at the admission; she’s not sure the king is breathing.

Feyre continues quickly, “You are... you’re the king, and there are a bunch of women here trying to vie for your affections, and here I am, pretending there’s even a chance that, that I could—uh, I don’t know.”

Rhys’s eyes are sparkling with amusement when she finally gathers the courage to look at him. It makes her feel like shit, and Feyre is about to tell him so when he laughs. The sound is soft and under his breath, incredulous.

They’ve just pulled to stop at the orphanage, and Feyre scoffs, offended by Rhys's reaction. She goes to rise from the sleigh, but Rhys just lays a hand on her wrist to stay her, leaning into to whisper his secret in her ear.

“You have more of a chance than I think you realize Feyre," Rhys whispers into her ear. "Darling."

The tutor leans back, surprised, and then she sees the intensity in his eyes. The seriousness on his face.

“I know I’m supposed to pick an heiress or a princess or duchess or whatever, but I find the whole matchmaking game... unpalatable,” Rhys tells Feyre with a grimace. It’s Feyre’s turn to forget to breathe.

“Perhaps, it will cost me my rule,” Rhys shrugs, a wry expression on his face. “But I think that having my father haunt me from his grave, is an acceptable punishment if it means I get to be happy. Besides, I like to think that my mother will stand up for me.”

“And what would make you so happy, you’d risk it all?” Feyre asks nervously. She thinks she'll barely be able to hear his response over the roaring in her ears. She suspects the answer, but Feyre won’t believe it until she hears him say it himself. Rhys’s eyes shine with sincerity and Feyre’s heart races. The look on the king’s face could only be described as reverent.

“Feyre,” he begins with solemnity. Feyre tries to remember a time where he used her name without a _darling_ attached to it. It’s not often. “It would make me very happy to—”

“THEY’RE BACK!” The voice of a familiar little girl cries in excitement. “AND THEY BROUGHT HORSES!”

Feyre breaks into a laugh at the perturbed expression Rhys wears. She presses her face into the crook of his neck to muffle her laughter, while Rhys makes a grumpy sound at being interrupted. Again. Although, Feyre can feel the laughter he’s trying to smother in his chest.

“We should’ve stuck to the woods,” Rhys tells her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Whose bright idea was it to spend our time with that _heathen_ child?”

Feyre leans back to look at him, smile big. “It was mine, but don't lie, you adore her.”

"Almost as much as I adore you, Feyre," the king admits, brushing his fingers across her cheek. "You make me very happy."

***

They fill the afternoon with arts and crafts. The children are eager to please Feyre, and Rhys watches, enraptured, as the woman leads the kids with skill and grace. She's had practice wrangling kids before. The sight of Feyre holding that baby again does funny things to him, and by the time, Rhys and Feyre are leaving the orphanage, Rhys is overcome with it all.

He'll need to go check on Helion's progress immediately.

The car has arrived to pick them up, and Rhys is nearly positive he’s missed some appointment with one of his suitors by now. He just can’t remember what or who. A tug on his sleeve manages to drag the king's attention away from Feyre, who is bidding the other children goodnight.

Elle looks up at him with her big brown eyes and smiles like she has a secret. The king raises a brow at the clever little girl and waits to see what she has to say, but the child merely waves at him, urges him closer to her.

Rhys grins, leans down onto the cold sidewalk to hear her better. His pants will be wet, but he doesn’t mind.

“Are you going to marry, Lady Faerie?” Elle whispers, hopeful.

Rhys plays at being thoughtful. Elle giggles. “Now there’s an idea.”

***

“Rhysand,” Amren swore the King’s name. Rhys tenses. His Head of Staff only calls him by his actual name rather than one of her made-up ones when she is very, very upset with him. 

Rhys racks his brain; he did forget about having tea with Vassa, but the Princess assured him it was alright. She’d spent the afternoon with Mor instead. Their plan was working brilliantly.

A paper plops onto the desk in front of him, and Rhys decides to focus on the black and white font before him, so he doesn’t have to look into Amren’s scary eyes. **SPOTTED: KING AND SUITOR TAKE SLEIGH RIDE, PARTICIPATE IN ARTS AND CRAFTS TIME AT LOCAL ORPHANAGE.**

“Fuck,” Rhys swears a string of oaths. He’s not allowed to talk like that really, not anymore, not as a king, but he’s in his office and with Amren so he thinks he can get away with it.

Amren raises an unimpressed brow. “Indeed, are you?”

“Wh-What?” Rhys sputters, very unkinglike. “You mean, with Feyre? Like—“

“I’ve never known you to shy about your conquests, Rhysand,” Amren’s interest is obviously heightened by this reveal.

“We’re not. Fucking, that is,” Rhys clarifies, praying to the Mother his blush isn’t evident. Amren will hold it against him for an eternity. “And Feyre isn’t a conquest.”

“Oh?”

“No, she’s my sister’s tutor,” Rhys says evasively. “And a very good person.”

“I see,” Amren says, giving nothing away. She’s taken a lot of money from him with that poker face. Figurative money, of course, paid in cookies and sugary sweets. Rhys would never play with the fund he gets from the country like that.

“I can work with that,” his Head of Staff says.

“You see what?” Rhys snaps a little defensive. “What are you working with?”

“You love her,” the woman says flatly. Only Amren could sound utterly unimpressed with the idea of being in love. Only Amren could see through him like that.

Rhys says nothing, floored. He hadn’t known it himself until Amren said the words for him. His heart pounds in his chest with the realization, and the king suddenly feels very dizzy in his chair. He might be about to pass out.

Amren smiles; it's wicked, “You didn’t know.”

“N-no,” he croaks. He tugs at his collar; the button up he wears suddenly feels much too snug around his throat. The tie is a noose.

“I can work with that,” Amren says again. With that, the Head of Staff for the Royal Velaris Family of Prythian turns on her pointed heels and leaves without another word. She doesn’t care that she’s just turned the king’s world upside down. Amren has other things to do.

***

When Amarantha arrives at the Castle of Dreams the next morning, every person sitting at the breakfast table goes still, forgets to breathe.

Amren doesn’t usually eat breakfast with the royal family because it isn’t protocol to do so, but she’d made an exception today, wanted to be nearer to the King, to better keep an eye on the fool. If it also meant she got to make the brute of a bodyguard squirm, all the better. Cassian deserved it.

The Head of Staff is extra pleased with her change in routine at the sight of the Countess. What if she hadn't been here to bear witness to the events unfolding? A catastrophe, indeed. One could only imagine what sort of disaster was about to unfold before here; at least Amren would have a head start on the fires.

“Oi! What the fuck are you doing here?” Cassian barks at the sight of the woman. It’s not the typical way to announce the arrival of a member of the peerage, but Amren supposes it will do. It's not entirely unwarranted.

Azriel sucks in a sharp breath. He sits beside Cassian and is probably very upset that he missed this critical detail. Azriel is an excellent source of gossip; Saoirse is second best. But both of the gossipers are wide-eyed at this turn of events. Amarantha did an excellent job sneaking in this morning. No one even knew she'd arrived. Amren didn't. Someone was getting fired this afternoon.

“It’s a pleasure as always, you brutish oaf,” the redhaired woman tells the Head of Security. Her tone drips with venom, implies none of the fond irritation or love for Cassian that the nickname usually holds. It grates on Amren; she's the only one allowed to be mean to her team like that.

“Fuck,” Saoirse hisses as she snaps out of her shock. The princess isn’t subtle either; her words escape her in a sharp breath and come out too loudly, echoing across the table. Mor snorts loudly, and Vassa watches the happenings with interest. She’s the only suitor at the table this morning, which is curious. Of the suitors, she and Rhys seem to have the least chemistry. Amren wonders what trouble the others are getting into now.

“Amarantha,” Amren drawls. The Head of Staff’s pale eyes shoot daggers towards the arrival. “I don’t recall seeing your name on the invitations for breakfast.”

“Because I didn’t put the bitch on there,” Morrigan shouts, practically frothing at the mouth. Vassa goes pale at the other woman’s fury. Amren supposes this could be a learning lesson for the princess, let her see the family at their worse before she decides to join them.

“I presumed it was a mistake,” The woman shrugs, unconcerned in the way only someone born into privilege could be.

Amren watches as the Countess glides down the length of the table and claims the empty seat closest to the king. She wears a sheath number made of navy lace that compliments her pale skin and vibrant hair. Amren should like to dump their breakfast all over it.

“So, I came anyway," Amarantha continues, oblivious to Amren's plotting. "After all, there’s no way Rhys would have forgotten about me.”

Amren slides her attention to the man beside her and finds King Rhysand staring at his surprise guest very carefully. The mask is in place: shoulder's lazy with arrogance and eyes lacking their natural sparkle.

“Countess Hybern,” Rhysand greets the woman as coldly as Amren has ever heard him. “Whatever brings you to this side of the mountains?”

Amarantha looks Amren over carefully, inspecting Amren's impeccable suit; they’ve never been on good terms with each other. It certainly wasn't about to change now. Then the Countess turns a perfect smile on the King of Prythian.

“I hear you’re looking for a wife, Your Majesty, and I am here to throw my hat in. Figuratively, of course, those damn things are too expensive to get dirty.” Her laugh is as fake as the rest of her, Amren thinks.

“Dance card’s full, I’m afraid.” Rhysand sounds anything other than afraid.

“Like we ever concerned ourselves with that,” Amarantha’s expression said it all, setting her hand on the king's arm with an overly familiar smile.

Small mercies that Feyre had opted out of the meal and claimed she had work to do.

Because Amarantha was here to ruin all of Amren's plans.


	8. PART EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dress is off the shoulder, made of a deep black satin that hugs Feyre’s every unrevealed curve. Rhys is rendered speechless, which is a rare thing for the king. Although, it feels less and less isolated every day he spends in Feyre’s presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry too much, lovelies! This is a Hallmark story! Minimal angst! Sorry for the cliffhanger. I actually feel really bad about it!!

**PART EIGHT**

“There’s no way I’m allowing you to wear that to dinner tonight,” the Princess Saoirse declares when Feyre answers the door in her pajamas.

Feyre sighs; there’s no need to feign the exhaustion she feels regarding her stubborn charge. Saoirse is a determined little creature; she’ll rule the world one day. Prythian step aside.

“Of course not,” Feyre tells her. “Because I’m not going.”

The princess gasps dramatically; then, she growls at her tutor. “You _have_ to go!”

Feyre rolls her eyes; she barely manages to step out of the way as Sersh barrels past her and into the room.

“If you don’t go, then I’ll have to sit through dinner with everyone _all by myself_ ,” the little girl laments. “It’ll be so _boring_.”

“I’m sure you’ve suffered through worse, Princess,” Feyre teases, but the amusement dies when Saoirse aims a fiery glare in her teacher’s direction. Oh yeah, Princess Saoirse Velaris of Prythian, Second of her Name, will rule all of mankind one day.

“You’re going,” the Princess tells her tutor. “And that final. Consider it an order.”

Feyre raises a brow in challenge. “You know, you can’t actually order me to do anything.”

“Bloody Americans,” Saorise complains. Feyre isn’t able to fight back the laughter that escapes her.

***

Amren’s spent the better part of the day trying to talk her king down from a national scandal. International, if the internet caught wind of a small nation’s king committing murder—the murder of his ex-girlfriend.

“By the Mother,” Rhys’s voice is laced with anger. It makes the accent he inherited from his mother come out, and Amren knows this means the king is truly pissed. “I swear, if that—that _woman_ has the nerve to show up at dinner tonight, Amren, you’re going to have to run the country in Saoirse’s stead.”

“Saoirse would make a mean little queen,” Amren observes from where she relaxes in a comfortable armchair. Rhys spent the better part of the day secluded in his personal study, where only a select few could get a hold of him. Amren was one of those few.

“Although, if you’re lucky, she could give you a pardon,” Amren muses. Rhys pauses in his pacing to shoot a menacing glare in his Head of Staff’s direction, but Amren is many things. Afraid of Rhysand is not one of them. “Have you been particularly kind to your sister as of late? Or will the littlest royal give you the noose?”

“You’re not funny, Amren,” Rhys growls. “This is serious! How did Amarantha even _get in here?_ She’s had all of her privileges revoked!”

“You know better than anyone how skilled that creature is at wrapping men around her talons,” Amren tells Rhys with little emotion. She has her opinions of the Countess Hybern, but it’s not her place to voice them. It seemed even less important when the king, then prince, broke it off with his long-term girlfriend.

The king looks away from Amren then, grinding his teeth to keep from making another snide remark.

“Has she left yet?” Rhys settles on at last. Amren’s disappointed. She enjoys watching the king lose his temper, as long as it’s in private.

“Varian says no,” the Head of Staff tells her king. Rhys raises his brows in surprise.

“Doesn’t he work for Princess Cresseida?” The man asks.

Amren’s smile is calculating but pleased. “Not anymore.”

***

According to the princess, _everyone_ was dining together in the great hall tonight. Well, everyone except Cassian and Azriel; Princess Cresseida’s bodyguard, too. It was why Saoirse insisted that Feyre come—to keep her company.

“Don’t I count as staff?” Feyre asks. “Especially if Cas and Az are excluded? I don’t want to intrude on this party, and I’m definitely not—”

“Shut up,” Saoirse tells her, and Feyre makes a face as if to say _excuse me?_ The princess shrugs her off. “You’re going, and that is final. Now go put on your dress.”

“I already told you, Sersh,” Feyre moans. “I don’t have a dress. At least not one that compares to what you’ve got on.”

“Well, fear not. I have come prepared,” Princess Saoirse says, shaking the dress in her arms. Feyre looks surprised at it; she hadn’t noticed the garment bag in the princess’s arms until now, too busy putting up a fight like a stubborn child.

“Go on,” Saoirse orders in that authoritative voice of hers; she hands the dress over with such force that Feyre has no choice but to take it from her. “Try the thing on. I think it will fit you.”

Feyre looks horrified. “Where did you get this from?”

An eye roll. “This is a palace full of women. And I have connections.”

“Saorise, who’s dress did you steal?”

The princess sighs, exasperated. “You and Vassa are nearly the same in size.”

“You stole from—”

“ _Borrowed_ ,” the sassiest twelve-year-old Feyre had ever met corrected.

“You borrowed this from Vassa? For me?” Feyre makes a face. “And she let you?”

“Vassa’s actually very cool,” Saoirse relents. It is clear to Feyre that it pains the princess to admit such a thing.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with her,” Feyre observes, raising an eyebrow.

Saoirse doesn’t miss a beat. “Are you jealous?”

“Terribly,” Feyre agrees. “I don’t know what to do without you bugging me all the damn time.”

The princess gasps and reaches to take the dress back from her tutor, but Feyre lifts it high above her head and out of the girl’s reach. Feyre isn’t much taller than her student, but she’s just tall enough.

“I’m disinviting you,” Saoirse growls. “Give it back!”

“Nope,” Feyre laughs at the anger in the girl’s face. “I’m coming. It’s decided.”

Feyre misses the way that Princess Saoirse smiles as the tutor slips away to the bathroom to change. She’s got Feyre right where she wants her.

***

The dress is off the shoulder, made of a deep black satin that hugs Feyre’s every unrevealed curve. Rhys is rendered speechless, which is a rare thing for the king. Although, it feels less and less isolated every day he spends in Feyre’s presence.

As hard as he tries, and Rhys was working very, very hard, the king was struggling not to stare at her, but he was finding it quite challenging to keep his eyes off of Feyre.

Fuck. He was in so much trouble.

At least the news hit his desk before dinner that Amarantha had taken her leave of the Castle of Dreams. It was good news, soothed Rhys’s nerves, even if it seemed, perhaps, _too easy_.

“Everything alright, Cousin?” Mor coos as she draws up next to him. Dressed in a red lace dress with matching lipstick, Rhys’s cousin is a force to be reckoned with; he thinks she’ll do an outstanding job impressing the redhead in the room. Her lips form a knowing smile.

Rhys glares at the mischief in his cousin’s brown eyes and jerks his head accusingly in Feyre’s direction. “I don’t suppose you have anything to do with this?”

“Cauldron, I wish,” Mor bemoans, placing her hands on her hips and sighing. She tilts her head as she takes in Feyre. “The look on your face when she walked in— _priceless_.”

“You’re not helping,” Rhys growls at her. Morrigan is such a nuisance; he doesn’t know why he keeps her around.

Feyre’s laughter catches his attention again, and Rhys’s gaze snaps back to of its own accord. The tutor hides on the other side of the room with his brothers; she’d located them nearly as soon as she arrived at the sitting area, and they had remained inseparable since. Rhys wishes his brothers would get back to work, so he could try and get Feyre alone. Yet as the group waits for the dinner bell, she’s clearly making use of their company before being stuck with all the blue bloods for dinner.

He can’t say he blames her for it.

“No, but Saoirse certainly is. Helping, that is,” Mor’s voice is all enjoyment as she draws Rhys back into the conversation. His cousin nods in the direction of Rhys’s sister. The little princess is wearing a smug look, wiggles her brow when her brother meets her eye. The evil thing did this to him on purpose.

Feyre’s breaks into laughter again; Cassian wears a bawdy grin as he watches her. This time the woman catches Rhys watching her, and a blush breaks out across her freckles, traveling down her neck and across her collarbones. It draws Rhys’s eye to the neckline of her cocktail dress, and suddenly Feyre isn’t the only one blushing. Rhys ducks his head, embarrassed by the knowing glint in the tutor’s eye. Feyre quirks a brow at him.

Fuck. He’s so done for.

“Oh, why don’t you just drag her into the broom cupboard and be done with it,” Morrigan pleads, giving him a shove in Feyre’s direction. It doesn’t take much more encouragement than that to get him walking. “I can’t take any more of the staring.”

“You’re impossible,” Rhys tells her.

Mor smacks him on the arm, gives him another shove, “Right back at ya.”

***

“Shouldn’t you be flirting with your suitors?”

Feyre smiles shyly at Rhys, teasing the king with an ease she isn’t entirely sure she feels. Instead, Feyre feels on edge, defensive even, as Rhys strolls in her direction with that lazy, cocky gait of his, but the glint in his eyes is what really makes her nervous. It’s—predatory. The way the king is watching her.

The ride back to the castle the night before was full of daring, light touches and teasing smiles; it seemed that Rhys was only capable of talking to her by whispering into her ear and making her shiver. The memory makes Feyre’s skin tingle, and if the king’s smile is anything to go by, he’s noticed.

The tutor thinks it’d be much easier to just keep the flirting to a minimum tonight and to remain at a distance. She’s not here to flirt with Rhys; she’s here to keep Saoirse company.

Yes, it’d be better to shoot him a sly smile or a teasing look from afar than to do so up close and in person, where Feyre can feel the heat of his skin or see that arrogant mouth of his up close. It’s only going to get them both in trouble.

Feyre catches herself, looking just there, at his lips quirked into a smirk; she snaps her gaze back up to those violet eyes. The expression there isn’t much better; it makes her blush, the heat she finds there.

“Amren’s trying very hard to see you engaged by the new year,” Feyre reminds him.

“So, I’ve heard,” Rhys purrs, leaning in close to her. Feyre thinks the red tinge will never fade from her face now. “Any ideas on who I should pick?”

Feyre shares a smile with him. It’s a fucked up game, but Rhys doesn’t seem to mind the joking. Feyre pretends not to notice the way her heart twists.

Rhys senses it, though, in that way of his. The conversation goes silent as the pair of both look out into the space, watching the guests as they pretend not to watch Rhys and Feyre.

Saoirse’s eyes gleam with pride, and Feyre is willing to guess it’s probably due to the fact she feels responsible for the way Rhys can’t keep his eyes off of her. Feyre wants to be mad at the scheming princess, but then she’d have to deny how much she’s enjoyed having Rhys watch her all evening.

Shit, she was in trouble.

“You’re never going to land a bride hiding over here in the corner with me,” Feyre tries for light-hearted, but she thinks her words fall flat. She hopes he doesn’t find a bride, but Feyre wouldn’t know how to voice this fact. “Flirting with me will make it very hard for you to get one of them to marry you.”

Rhys gives her a funny look, staring long enough to make Feyre exceptionally uncomfortable. “That’s the point, Lady Faerie.”

He winks and then walks away without another word, leaving Feyre speechless. The dinner bell rings before she can recover, and Morrigan sweeps her way, linking their arms.

***

Rhys was going to kill Saoirse. The villain had arranged for everything. It seemed peculiar that Feyre, the tutor and guest of the princess, would be seated on the king’s right side, a place of honor, and away from Saoirse, but there she was, looking equally uncomfortable.

“She’s evil, isn’t she?” Feyre whispers to Rhys.

“I’ve been trying to tell everyone so for years,” Rhys moans, and Feyre laughs.

Down the table, the princess in question chats amicably with Mor and Vassa. Rhys is happy to see Vassa enjoying herself with them, free of any responsibilities for the remainder of her stay. The king has invited the princess to reside here indefinitely. Vassa dreads going home, and the king has always had a soft spot for strays.

“You love her, and you know it,” Feyre tells him, expression soft with fondness. Rhys has to look away from her before he does something stupid like kiss her at the dining table.

Instead, the king grunts in agreement and is incapable of hiding the smile that comes at the sound of Feyre’s giggling. It’s quickly become one of his favorite sounds.

Down the table, Saoirse delivers her punch line with a dry expression, a look she’d perfected after years with Azriel at her side; the other two women burst into laughter, both equally bright and loud.

And if Rhys catches the older women sharing their laughter, meeting each other’s eye over the top of his sister’s head, well, Rhys figures that’s one less suitor he has to contend with.

***

“You are not allowed in there,” the maid tells Amarantha with as firm a voice as she can manage. The wraith-like creature does her best to possess a fierce expression as she stands down the Countess Hybern, but Amarantha is not an easily scared woman.

“I’m the future queen of this country. _Your_ future queen, I might add,” Amarantha tells the maid and turns the doorknob to the king’s bedroom. “You would do well to remember that.”

Without looking back, Amarantha makes her way into the king’s suite. She doesn’t know what it is precisely what she is looking for, but the Countess knows that she will find it.

***

“So, Feyre,” Princess Cresseida purrs, cutting her roast into perfect little squares, her back straight and poised. “How are you enjoying your stay?”

 _Stay_. The king doesn’t like the way the Princess of Adriata chooses her words; the way she says it makes it sound like Feyre is only here temporarily as if she weren’t welcome here for as long as she wants. Indefinitely. Forever. Cauldron, would that make Rhys a happy man.

A suspicious and protective part of Rhys can’t help but wonder if the princess is trying to imply something else, trying to suggest that as queen, Princess Cresseida wouldn’t allow her.

It fills Rhys with a wave of irrational hot anger, and he has to remind himself not to clench his fork until it bends in half. Saoirse was intelligent enough to get Feyre moved to his side but lacked the foresight to remove the tutor’s number one tormentor. Cresseida.

The king resists the need to intervene, knowing that Feyre is more than capable of defending herself. The tutor delays her answer at first, likely picking up on the subtle undertones. The woman is as sharp as any dagger, clever and quick, too. Rhys braces himself for her next words, overcome with anticipation.

“It’s been very nice,” Feyre bows out of the potential battle of wits, and Rhys is surprised. His gaze lands on her, curious. He didn’t expect her to just rollover.

“Have you done anything fun?” The princess continues, eyes watching their victim, a shark in the water smelling blood.

Rhys can’t stand it. He leaps to Feyre’s defense, eager to put the Princess in her place.

“Actually, Feyre was the victor in a positively brutal snow-war the other night,” Rhys drawls. He can feel the burn of Amren’s glare; Rhys isn't supposed to bait the suitors. He's supposed to flirt with them until Amren can get him out of this mess. “Her companion fell in battle, but she managed to defeat the King anyway.”

Feyre rolls her eyes at his use of the third person. “Well, you know how we Americans feel about kings.”

Rhys bursts into laughter and Feyre grins mischievously at him. Instinctively, he reaches out and rests his hand on her arm, holding onto her as he laughs himself to tears.

The rest of the table goes silent at their interaction, split between confusion and outright amusement. The king could care less about who he offends anymore. He’s only got eyes for Feyre and how her laughter crinkles her freckled nose.

The Princess to his left looks between the two of them with pursed lips, but she ceases her assault at last and turns her attention to Amren. They begin to engage in polite conversation and ignore Rhys and Feyre.

The couple falls into silence; Rhys sneaks a few glances at her, admiring her freckles and the shape of her neck. It’s damning to do so here in front of everyone, but he can’t help himself. He’s—in love.

***

The king won’t stop staring at Feyre.

It’s made this whole dinner into one hell of a spectacle. At least by now, the majority of Rhys’s suitors have found one excuse or another to take leave of the Castle of Dreams. Only Cresseida, Vassa, and Ianthe remain.

Vassa, however, seems utterly uninterested in Rhys; Feyre notes the way the woman’s smile sparkles in the direction of Morrigan. The tutor didn’t think it was possible to get the Duchess so flustered, but here they were, with Mor as red the dress she wears.

It made Feyre happy to see her new friend happy.

“Feyre, darling,” Rhys coos. Feyre shoots him an unimpressed look without even waiting to hear what he has to say. “You’re staring. It’s rude.”

The tutor snorts. Rhys’s grin is full and happy. She glares at him, “That’s rich coming from you, Your Majesty.”

“I’m a king; it’s practically my job to be an asshole,” Rhys explains to Feyre, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“I’m beginning to notice that you only ever invoke the king excuse when it excuses your bad behavior,” Feyre tells him. The man’s expression is feline.

“You’re very clever, Lady Faerie,” Rhys smiles.

Morrigan asks Rhys a question, and the king turns his attention to his cousin, exchanging witty remarks with the firecracker of a woman. Vassa joins in the taunting, rallying to Mor’s side immediately, and Feyre's never known Saoirse to miss an opportunity to torment her brother. The rest of the table looks delighted at the turn of events.

It gives Feyre a chance to catch her breath. It’s hard to remember to breathe when the king watches her so closely, but as his cousin and former suitor torment him mercilessly, Rhys forgets about fawning over Feyre—for a little while.

“Aye, but I think you’re just a little too pretty for me, Your Majesty,” Vassa taunts, and the table laughs as Morrigan makes a show of being very, very offended by the implications of the princess’s statement. “Don’t take it personally.”

Rhys’s eyes sparkle with fondness. Vaguely, Feyre hears Ianthe’s scoff and a chair scraping across the floor, but she’s too busy listening to Rhys to care.

“I promise I won’t,” the king swears with a smile.

“Countess Hybern,” Princess Cresseida says the name with thinly veiled displeasure. “I didn’t know you were taking residence here at the palace.”

The table goes silent, and Feyre pales at the look on the king’s face. Even Amren looks ready to commit a felon. Whatever is about to happen, Feyre knows it isn’t going to be good.

Countess Hybern. The tutor doesn’t know who she is, but it doesn’t take a fool to read the mood of the table and surmise that the woman’s arrival isn’t good news.

“Yes, well, Rhys and I decided to spend some time together and catch up,” the Countess tells the table. She takes a seat in Ianthe’s vacated spot. “It’s been so long since we last spoke. We missed each other.”

 _Rhys,_ she called him. She knows the king well then.

There was a history there.

“Countess,” Amren’s words are silken, but there’s no denying the fire that burns behind the Head of Staff’s eyes. “I thought you’d decided to spend your vacation in Illyria with your family.”

“Pshaw,” the Countess says. “My dad is too busy with the council; he’s the one that suggested I come. After all, it’s been nearly five years since I missed a winter at the palace here, and only then, it was because of the flu.”

The woman’s words are made all the worse as she sends the king a secretive smile, filled with familiarity and fondness. Feyre is suddenly feeling very green.

“Feyre?” Azriel’s night-soft voice comes from behind her. “There’s something I need to discuss with you regarding the princess.”

Azriel’s attempt to provide escape only drags the Countess’s attention to Feyre. “Who even is _this_ little thing? What is she doing in my seat?”

“Countess Hybern,” Rhys says, suddenly standing from the table and buttoning his jacket with precision. His violet eyes burn, and Feyre thinks she’s never seen the man so angry before. He’s furious. “If you’d do me the honor of joining me in my study.”

The King’s voice is ice. His little sister’s eyes are full when they flick towards Feyre, checking on her tutor. This is likely intervening with the princess’s evil plans.

Amarantha shoots Rhys a coy smile, waves in his direction. “I’ll be there in just a minute. I want to catch up with the family.”

The table fell silent as soon as Rhysand rose from the table, but now the dinner guests have gone still. Feyre holds her breath, chances a look at the man she’s sitting beside. The king doesn’t look anything like Rhys anymore; it makes her nervous.

“It wasn’t a request.”

King Rhysand leaves without another word. The Countess pales, likely realizing her error, and then the woman rises from the table with a wan smile and sweeps out the double doors behind him.

It takes a few minutes for the people at the table to recover, Feyre included. The tutor has never seen Rhysand look so, so—

Cruel. Like an evil king from a fairytale. It reminds Feyre of how little she knows him, even as she dreams of being able to spend more time with him.

“Who the fecking hell does she think she is?” Vassa cries, accent rich with her irritation. Mor smiles in the Princess of Vallahan’s direction and runs a hand down one of her arms. The look on the blonde’s face could only be described as besotted, a feat in the current situation.

“That is Amarantha,” Ianthe tells the table in a cold voice, having returned without Feyre noticing. Gone is the false pep and levity in the woman’s voice; perhaps, this is the real Ianthe come to light. “His Majesty’s girlfriend.”

Girlfriend. The word rings in Feyre’s mind, clanging against her skull and making her dizzy.

“ _Ex-girlfriend_ ,” Princess Saoirse seethes. Mor nods in agreement. If anyone would know Rhys’s secretive personal life, it’d be her. The two were very close; Feyre knew that. Besides, why would Amren invite these women to the palace to court a king who was already dating a suitable queen?

Rhys dated her. A Countess. A beautiful and successful woman with curves, a guy could get lost in for days. And now Rhys was sneaking off for sleigh rides with Feyre.

“Well, if she’s come to court, the rest of us might as well leave,” Ianthe tells the table bitterly. “Those two have been back and forth for a decade at least. I should’ve known this whole endeavor was pointless.”

Mor scoffs, and her expression tells Feyre the woman has a similar opinion on the matter. Amren’s fierce expression hushes the duchess, though. Then the Head of Staff excuses herself, following after the King.

Feyre turns beet red when she realizes that the dinner guests are all looking at her, with various expressions. Guilt. Compassion. Jealousy. Indifference. She knows they’re all thinking the same thing, but Princess Cresseida is the only one brave enough to give the though voice, to shatter Feyre’s heart with her underhanded words.

“Well, I suppose this little charade is over.”

***

The princess sits on the bed with Feyre for a long while after dinner comes to an end. Saoirse keeps glancing at her tutor, but Feyre doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, the woman just keeps staring at the wall, clearly trying to process the turn the evening has taken.

The little girl decides it’s probably best to remain quiet.

Then: “Did you know?”

Saoirse bites her lip in shame. Feyre presses the point.

“Did you know she was here? That she and Rhys were—“

“They’re _not dating_ ,” Princess Saoirse emphasizes. “They broke up, like, over a year ago, back when—when Rhys became king.”

When their parents died in a car accident.

Feyre’s expression softens, and she reaches for Saoirse’s hand. The little girl stands and walks away from the older woman, putting distance between them.

“Besides, she fucking evil,” Saoirse continues, seeing red at the thought of the woman being back in Rhys’s life. “Mor always said that Amarantha was only with Rhys to have a shot at the throne. There’s no _way_ Rhys would ever get back together with her—never. Not now that he’s—"

The princess can tell by the look on her friend’s face that Feyre knows precisely what she was about to say. _Not now that he’s met you_.

Saoirse’s eyes flash with irritation. “I figured—good riddance. Then Rhys came home, and you two met, and I just thought—“

Feyre looks at Saoirse in surprise when the princess’s voice breaks with disappointment and guilt. The princess feels very stupid for what she did tonight, dressing Feyre up like a doll and parading her in front of her brother.

Of course, Rhys was going to marry that horrible woman. Now Saoirse had only hurt her friend, gotten Feyre’s hopes up for nothing.

It’s made all the worse when Feyre wraps her thin arms around Saoirse and pulls the girl in close. The Princess sniffles, fighting back unexpected tears. Yet, as her tutor rests her chin atop the girl’s head, Saoirse is hopeless to fight them back any longer.

“Hey, it’s not your fault, Sersh,” Feyre consoles her, rubbing soft circles onto the skin of her back. “You thought you were helping. I’m the adult; I’m the one that should have known we were playing a silly game.”

“It’s not a game, though!” Saoirse cries, breaking free of her friend's embrace. “Rhys can’t marry her! He just— _can’t_! She’ll make a terrible queen, and besides, she makes my brother miserable. He’s just an idiot!”

Feyre laughs, but the sound is a little watery. “I think I’m the one that was an idiot, Sersh.”

A knock at the door interrupts them.

For a moment, both of them just stare at it, sniffling. Then comes the voice with it.

“Feyre, please,” Rhys sighs deeply before continuing, sounding broken. “I know you must be upset with me. Hell, _I’m_ upset with me. But—could you please open the door? Please?”

Anger washes over Saoirse, and it takes her a matter of seconds to fling the door open, snarling at her brother without even thinking the words through first. “Fuck off, Rhys! She doesn’t want to talk to you!”

Rhys looks startled by his sister’s reaction, or maybe he’s surprised to find the princess here in Feyre’s room at a quarter past midnight. Either way, Saoirse is pleased to ruffle her brother’s feathers. He deserves it. The fucking idiot.

“Sersh,” Rhys says her name like he’s approaching a cornered, feral animal. “I’m sorry. I just—“

“Go away,” the princess hisses until Feyre’s hand drops to her shoulder, squeezing it softly. Saoirse looks up to the tutor in surprise.

“It’s okay, Sersh,” Feyre says with an amused smile. It contradicts the silver lining her eyes. “Why don’t you go off to bed, and I’ll talk this out with Rhys, okay?”

Saoirse crosses her arms and glares at her brother. That’s the last thing she wants to do. “But—“

“Go on you little monster,” Rhys tells her, trying for teasing, but the princess doesn’t laugh, and the smile fades from his face.

“Sersh,” Feyre raises a brow at her.

“Fine,” Princess Saoirse groans, walking around the king and heading down the hall. She hates it when the adults do this kind of thing, dismissing her.

Before she turns the corner, though, Saoirse stops and spins around, pointing a deadly finger at her brother in a warning. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“It’s indisputable,” Rhys agrees.

***

Feyre won’t look Rhys in the eye, which is both well-deserved and horrible. The king pockets his hands, trying to find the right words to say to the woman, to make this right and make her feel more at ease with him. But the silence lasts, and Feyre just crosses her arms and watches the wallpaper age.

“That sister of mine is positively terrifying,” Rhys tries for a lighthearted tone. He just wants to see her laugh. “Maybe I should keep her away from Amren.”

Feyre doesn’t so much as smile. Rhys’s shoulders slump in guilt.

“Feyre, I owe you an apology,” Rhys begins, but the woman cuts him off with a wave of her hand. He’s the king, and people don’t usually do that sort of thing to him, but it’s part of the reason he likes Feyre so much. She doesn’t listen to the laws of decorum.

“It’s fine,” Feyre says, sounding like its anything but. “We didn’t do the whole " _what are we"_ conversation for a reason, I suppose.”

Rhys takes a step towards her, longing to reach out and comfort the hurt, but he pauses. Feyre wasn’t raised to follow decorum, but the king was, strictly so. Besides coming into her room uninvited, after he hurt her feelings so, feels wrong.

But the woman reads the hesitation differently, and Feyre ducks her head to hide her burning cheeks. Fuck, Rhys thinks. How could he screw up so badly? He should have known Amarantha wasn’t going to listen. The king should have walked her off the property himself, lead her to the airport, and watched as the doors sealed shut. He should have waited for the plane to take off, taking that horrible woman away with it.

“Feyre,” Rhys whispers her name gently. It pulls another sniffle out of her, and it breaks the king’s heart into pieces.

“It’s alright, Rhys,” Feyre tells him quietly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Feyre.” The next time he says her name, it’s a plea. “Feyre, would you like to have that conversation now?”

He thought it was obvious, of course, that they were something more than a tryst behind the hedges, but now Rhys was reconsidering. He should’ve known that Feyre would have doubts, insecurities. Recalling their conversation on the way to the orphanage should have made it evident to him.

Feyre didn’t think she was worth his time. Didn’t think she compared to the women that’d come to woo him. What a ridiculous thought. She was more magnificent than any of the women parading around this palace.

“I’ll go first,” Rhys begins, deciding to enter the room anyway and closing the door behind him. Feyre turns her back to him, shoulders shaking softly; she doesn’t want him to see her cry. Rhys aches to touch her, to console her, but he doesn’t want to push her limits. He’s messed up enough today, he thinks.

“Amarantha and I have been over for a while now,” Rhys tells Feyre’s back. He desperately watches the lines of her shoulders, trying to make out if she hears him if she believes him.

“I ended the relationship after my parents—“ The words clog his throat, and the king has to swallow the grief to keep going. “After I became king. Rumors always circulated us that Am only wanted the throne, that she was only using me to get to it, but I, well, I was a fucking idiot, as Sersh so eloquently put it.”

Feyre snorts, and hope flares in the king’s chest. Rhys allows for the ghost of a smile to touch his face. “She wanted to get married, and all I could think about was how it wasn’t the time or place to discuss that sort of thing. I was—my family was grieving, not to mention the fact that Amarantha and I could barely get through breakfast without a fight.

“She accused me of not loving her enough, of using her to keep my bed warm, and of wasting her time,” Rhys laughs. It’s a strangled noise, borders on hysteric. “Which was just—bullshit. So, I ended things with her in no uncertain terms, and she moved back home to live on her family estate. I hadn’t seen her in nearly a year until she showed up in Itica one day, acting as if nothing had changed between us.

“We... slept together. I’m not proud of it, but if I’d known what I was coming home to, I would never have wasted time with her. Amarantha asked me to abstain from the condom, which was absurd and utterly out of character for her, and that's when I realized what she was up to.”

Feyre wasn’t crying anymore, and even though Rhys couldn’t see her face, Rhys knew she was listening intently to his story. Good.

“I told her to leave, and we got into a huge fight. She didn’t even know that that morning the Prythian Government had informed me that if I didn’t get married within 90 days, I’d lose the right to rule my country. I knew if Amarantha heard about it, she’d deem us engaged. Trap me like she had planned to all along, with or without a baby,” Rhys steps towards Feyre, brushing her shoulders with his fingers; it’s a test to see if he could have more.

A whoosh of breath tells the king that the touch is as magnetic for her as it is for him.

“I left for Veritas the next morning, and I came home to the Castle of Dreams,” the title comes out rich with fondness. Feyre chances a glance over her shoulder at him with a small smile, “and I found my sister in the kitchens at midnight, making hot chocolate with her foul-mouthed tutor.”

Feyre’s laugh is vibrant and genuine then. So, Rhys feels confident enough to wrap his fingers ever so gently around her biceps and turn her to face him. She looks so fucking good in the dress she wore to dinner that Rhys could die. But the red in her eyes ruins it for him. He did that. He’s an asshole.

A fucking idiot.

The king swallows the guilt and continues, “That night, I met the most intriguing woman I’d ever met in my life. Smart mouthed and compassionate, and just—I could drown in those fucking eyes of yours, you know that?”

Feyre makes to push him away, embarrassed, but Rhys tightens his grip on her arms and tugs her closer with a smile. “I was smitten immediately.”

Feyre snorts, loud and unladylike. Rhys can feel his grin as it spreads across his face.

“What the fuck is this? Some kind of rom-com?” Feyre asks him with a sardonic smile, but she’s smiling, and the tears in her eyes look like the good kind now, so Rhys thinks he can get away with pressing a kiss to her forehead and hugging her close to his body.

“Well, I was thinking more like a fairytale, Feyre Darling,” Rhys purrs in the crook of her neck, where he’s tucked his face. Feyre shivers. “I am a king, after all. A handsome and available one at that.”

Feyre pinches his side with extra force, and he hisses. Okay, he deserved that, but before Rhys can continue, Feyre’s small voice asks: “Are you? Available?”

“Well, I suppose I’m not,” Rhys says, leaning away to better see her face. The hopeful expression that was there cracks and—she looks disappointed.

“Because—“ Rhys trips over his tongue, quick to remedy his choice of words. He’s the most charming bastard anyone’s ever met until he’s faced with Feyre. In front of her, he turns to mush.

Rhys finds himself suddenly very, very nervous. “Well, I guess that circles around to the original question.”

A trembling laugh escapes the king, and Feyre observes him, just as nervous.

“Uh, well, I’d like to think that I’m taken.” Another breath of a laugh. Rhys can hardly recognize himself anymore. “Well, by you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we're fairly close to the end of this one, which actually makes me very sad. However, I'm not ready to leave this universe yet; so, I made a Castle of Dreams Series for you all to follow. I will add my follow-ups, one-shots, and drabbles there! (Eventually.)


	9. PART NINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The news broke that morning, a vile (and entirely true) rumor that the King of Prythian was going to renounce his throne for love. Amren was furious. The suitors were resigned. And Rhys was, as always, missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay! I was sick forever, and then I hated everything I was writing for this fic! Writers, ya know? Anyway, prepare to crank the Feysand Fluff Dial to OVERLOAD.

**PART NINE**

When the king is mad, he has an accent, Feyre learns. It's similar to his sisters, a rough echo of the melodic way Saoirse speaks. Even with her back turned, Feyre can easily imagine the way Rhys's eyes burn with anger, how those violet orbs must be glowing as he recounts his time with Amarantha. They probably look very similar to the way his sister's do at test time.

Yet, Feyre is too afraid to look him the eye to confirm that theory. Instead, she watches the walls, wills this horrible moment to pass; so, that Feyre can move on with herself, pull herself back together, and live with the disappointment that king just wasn't that interested in her.

Yet, that isn't how the conversation goes at all. As Feyre listens to the king explain the horrors of his relationship with the Countess, Feyre is filled with rage, with a need to hunt down the woman in question and wring her neck. How could anyone be so cold and manipulative towards someone as good and kind as Rhys?

When Feyre turns around at last and looks into Rhys's hopeful eyes, the affection, she finds there is almost too much to bear. It's staggering. It made her weak with the knowledge that anyone might look at her like that — little, plain Feyre Archeron.

"Are you available?" Feyre aims for confidence, but she fails. The words come out weak and sad, and the tutor thinks she might just go curl up in her bed for weeks, hiding in her shame.

"Uh, well, I'd like to think that I'm taken." Feyre's heart plummets, then soars when he says, "Well, by you."

"Me?" Feyre gasps, surprised. Rhys's expression is suffered; he sighs.

"Is that so hard to believe?" The king asks. "That I would want you? To be with you?"

"I—no," she decides quickly. No, it isn't surprising. Feyre felt the connection between them right away, from the very first moment they met, exchanging banter over spiced cocoa. They just—clicked.

Feyre's head feels dizzy with the rush of emotions she experiences. Excitement sets her heart racing, and her face warms, flushed from happiness. She'd known, of course, or at least, she'd suspected it. Yet knowing was different from the flirting, the subtle hints, and talking around the matter. Rhys finally said it outright. He wanted her.

Wanted to be hers.

"Good." Rhys's smile is warm as he runs his hands down her arms, settling them on the small of her waist. They feel right there, and Feyre smiles as he tugs her in close, leaning in more and more by the minute. The woman mirrors him without thinking, arching into his warmth, and bringing her face closer to his. Closer.

Just as Feyre's eyes begin to flutter closed, Rhys speaks, brushing their noses together in a sweet gesture that threatens to burst her heart.

"It's your turn, darling," Rhys tells Feyre, pressing his lips to her forehead instead. A sweet gesture, but not what she wanted.

The anticipation in Feyre's body leaves in a big exhale, and she can feel the way Rhys smiles at her reaction. She takes a moment to brace herself; Feyre's never had an easy time expressing herself, didn't grow up in a situation that made it come easy.

But then Feyre looks into Rhys's warm, violet eyes.

"I'm yours," she breathes the word, whisper-soft. She's not ready to say much else, but Rhys's blinding smile informs Feyre that he knows what she means, what she's implying. He recognizes the truth that she's skirting about.

He leans forward then, again, back into her space, and so close that they share breath. Rhys is biting his lip as he stares at her, and Feyre thinks it makes it very hard for her to concentrate when he's looking at her like that. The all-consuming heat in his eyes makes her dizzy. Weak.

This time when Feyre lets her eyes fall closed, Rhys reaches out and brushes a finger across one of her cheeks, tucks an unruly piece of hair behind her ear. It falls back out immediately; her current cut is impossible to tame. Rhys laughs soft and fond at it, breath tickling her face, and then he kisses her.

*

Azriel is thrilled to remove Amarantha from the palace that evening. It's something he's longed to do for a very, very long time. He only wishes that she wasn't a lady and that he wasn't a proper man so that he could toss her into the dirt like she deserved. What a wretched thought.

"Take your hands off me at once!" The Countess of Hybern demands of Azriel. She tries to yank her bicep free of his hold, but Amarantha isn't very strong in the physical sense. Her tenacity lies in her scheming and in her manipulations. To think there was a time when he worried, she might become Queen.

"Don't you know who I am?" She cries as they draw nearer to the back entrance. Amren was very specific that the woman be taken out an alternate exit.

When Azriel ignores her, Amarantha yanks her arm away from him again. Azriel simply flexes his fingers. It's a warning.

"I am the _Countess of Hybern_!" The woman screams. Her shrill soprano echoes across the stone halls, and Azriel frowns at her in disapproval. "Look, I know you're new around here, but I am the future _Queen of Prythian._ And I—"

"I know exactly who you are," Azriel interrupts in his soft baritone, but the guards at the exit straighten up when they hear his tone. A trained ear can sense the tension, the irritation in his voice, hidden behind the soft composure he keeps. "I just don't care."

There's the clicking of heels as Amren joins them. Cassian floats behind her. The two may snap at each other often, but when it comes down to it, even Cassian and Amren have each other's backs, will set aside their disagreements to serve their king.

"Amarantha," Amren begins in a disinterred drawl.

" _Countess,"_ the woman hisses.

"Right," Amren says, unconvinced. "A car is coming around to escort you off of the royal grounds."

"Escort?" Another hiss.

"That car will deliver you directly to the airport from which you will return you to your family home," the Head of Staff inspects her nails to avoid looking in the direction of the redhead. "Expect the decree to meet you there in the morning."

"Decree?" Amarantha looks confused for the first time ever. Azriel takes no small amount of joy in the moment about to unfold. "What decree?"

"His Royal Majesty, King Rhysand Velaris of Prythian," Amren speaks the words with a solemnity that makes the skin on Azriel's neck crawl. He'd never want to be on her wrong side, "has decided to revoke your peerage. So, enjoy your new life, Amarantha Hybern."

"He can't _do that!"_ Amarantha screams, the sound bouncing off the walls. Cassian scrunches up his face in distaste, but his posture is prepared to interfere if necessary.

Amren nods once to Azriel, his cue to escort the woman outside. He's not taking a chance with this one. Azriel will walk her across the mountains if he has too.

*

Feyre has kissed a few people in her life. Issac surprised her with her first back in junior high, when they were young and dumb and had no idea what they were doing. Sam kissed her in between class periods in high school when they both thought they did know what they were doing, but then he stood her up at the Spring Formal her junior year. Issac came to her rescue, and they were both better kisses the second time around.

In college, Feyre got drunk and kissed Sara, who was a really good kisser. It was an experiment, and in the morning, Sara decided it wasn't something that she'd want to do again. Feyre was okay with that if a little disappointed that there'd be no more kissing.

And then there was Tamlin. Feyre liked his kisses. More than his kisses. Yet, Tamlin didn't like a lot about Feyre. It just took her a while to see that. Feyre was happier once she did.

Kissing Rhys isn't like any of those kisses. It's barely an echo of their earlier kiss, the first one in the gardens. That was heat and a little desperation: passion and the fear of not getting another shot at it. Then Feyre ruined the moment and panicked and apologized.

This kiss is like coming home. Rhys's kiss tells her exactly how he feels about her, tells her all the words that he's not ready to say, and Feyre reciprocates. Eagerly.

Her cheeks burn when they finally part for air, flushed with the good kind of embarrassment and not an ounce of panic. They burn because Feyre is smiling too hard to keep kissing him; she's so happy.

Rhys's expression is dazed—stunning to Feyre. She likes this look on him, and Feyre finds herself wishing she could paint it. Yet, she doubts she could ever do it justice were she to try and recreate this moment, memorialize it onto paper.

She thinks she'd like to try anyway.

Then Rhys brushes his thumb across her bottom lip, and the mood changes. They're alone—truly alone for the first time. Only Saoirse knows her brother is here. No suitor or staff member or family member is about to walk in on them.

Rhys's eyes fill with impossible heat. He must realize it, too, and he steps impossibly closer to Feyre, filling in the last remnants of space between them. It's just them. Alone in her room. All the cards are on the table. Almost.

"I'm scared," Feyre gives the feeling life at last just as Rhys sweeps in for another kiss. She hates herself for interrupting what was going to be a perfect moment.

Rhys hesitates like she knew he would, pausing just before pressing his lips to hers. When she opens her eyes, she finds him observing her; Rhys looks self-conscious.

Quickly, he takes a step back, and Feyre misses his warmth immediately.

"I know it's a lot to take on, even just dating me," Rhys admits, and he looks so resigned to the fact that it makes Feyre's heart hurt. "You'd need a security detail, and people will be very interested in the idea of my dating someone who wasn't—"

"A princess?" Feyre supplies.

Rhys nodes in agreement, but his expression is somber, so different from the joy that lit up his entire being just moments ago. "I understand if you need to consider it more fully, I only—"

"Rhys," Feyre scolds him, but the chastisement holds no heat. She tugs him close to her by the lapels of his jacket and cups his face with her hands, so the only place he can look is into her eyes. "I don't need to consider anything. I'm all in."

"But you said you were scared," Rhys repeats, confused.

"Yes, but not for me," Feyre clarifies, running a thumb across one of his cheekbones. He leans into it, and Feyre savors the weight of his face in her hands.

"I'm afraid that you're going to have to give up everything," she explains. Rhys's face hardens. "Just to date _me_? What if you change your mind? Or we don't work out? I'm very annoying."

"I won't," Rhys tells her with absolute confidence. "And we will."

It makes her a little dizzy, the way Rhys looks at her when he says the words, makes the promise.

"And you couldn't be annoying if you tried," Rhys's hands settle back on her waist, tugging their bodies flush.

"And if you regret having to give it all up?" Feyre swallows. "You love being king, Rhys. You love your people, and they love you—for some reason."

He scowls at her for the jab, but then he sighs, that confidence of his wavering. Feyre likes seeing this part of Rhys. The version of him without all the walls, without the arrogant smokescreen.

"We will figure it out," he flashes her a wry smile. "I'll serve my people until I die, even if it isn't as their king, and if Amren pulls it off, whatever the hell it is that she's working on, then all the better. Prythian will get to keep me, but even better: they'll get you."

She gasps, but Rhys shoots her a wink.

*

Cassian thinks its a little weird when Amren announces that she's leaving the castle, shortly after Azriel does with Amarantha.

Yet, what he really thinks is weird, and kind of gross, is that Amren is leaving with the new guard, Varian. The one they've all but stolen from Adriata. An international crisis in the making.

Were they going on a date?

The Head of Staff, dressed in a flawless white trench coat and matching scarf, only gives Cassian a critical once over before issuing a single order: "Don't fuck anything up while I'm out."

The man, Varian, has to bite his lip to keep from laughing, but his brilliant blue eyes sparkle with amusement. He shares a brief look with Cassian and then holds the door open for Amren.

"Seems like a weird time to go out for a date, Tiny," Cassian declares, following after them because he can't help himself. He likes danger.

"Mind your own business, oaf," Amren tells him in clipped tones. The Head of Security hears the warning, but he decides not to heed it.

"And if I don't?"

"Then you'll find yourself on the end of a noose sooner than you expected," Amren informs him, stepping out into the cold night air. It has started snowing.

"We don't do that anymore!" Cassian calls as the door clicked shut. Then he reconsiders. "Right?"

*

Feyre and Rhys watch each other for a long moment. It's nice like this, Feyre thinks, being wrapped up in his arms. He's warm and safe, and she'd like to spend a long time like this, being held by him.

Yet, Feyre is exhausted; the day ended up being something of an emotional roller coaster for her. She decides to blame Saoirse; that troublesome student of hers just had to go and stir the pot.

Her tiredness must show in her face, though, because Rhys gives her a fond smile and presses another kiss to her forehead before saying, "You're tired."

Feyre doesn't respond, but she does lean into his warmth and nuzzles into his chest greedily. With a chuckle, Rhys gives her a gentle squeeze and another kiss. "I'll let you get some sleep."

When it becomes clear to Feyre that the king intends to release her and take his leave, she grumbles an incoherent protest and tightens the grip she keeps on his jacket. Feyre can feel Rhys's smile where he presses it against the crown of her head.

"Stay," she pleads. "There's room for both of us."

Rhys laughs softly, and his eyes are warm when Feyre looks into them. He smiles, "You're going to get me into a lot of trouble with those eyes of yours, darling."

Feyre raises a brow, "For asking you to stay the night?"

"No, not for that," Rhys tells her, but he whispers into her ear, "I could never say no to you when you turn those hopeful blue eyes on me."

Feyre gives him a shove, playful. "The Great King of Prythian taken down by a pair of eyes. What would your enemies say?"

"May they never find out." Rhys smiles, kisses her brow, and then her lips when she pouts. "Now, as much as I love you in that dress, go, and change."

Feyre wiggles her eyebrows at Rhys but turns to leave for the bathroom. "As you command, Your Majesty."

*

Amren doesn't like Helion.

In her opinion, he's a horrible flirt. She has trouble understanding how his flighty ways don't interfere with his practice. It seems like constitutional law would require more... focus.

"Normally, I'd be delighted to see two attractive faces on my doorstep at this hour," Helion coos, grinning at Amren. Varian shuffles his feet behind her, clearly a little surprised at the greeting. The bodyguard isn't from around here; he doesn't know Helion. Amren forgets.

"However, I don't think the two of you are here to keep me company," Helion pouts, and Amren works hard not to roll her eyes at him. He sighs before making room for the pair to pass by and come inside.

"Hardly," Amren tells the man flatly. Varian wears the slightest smile as he watches on in silence. She shoots him a warning look, but it only causes the man's smile to grow into something more tangible.

"I already told your king that I don't have a way to get him out of marriage," Helion says. "I've read the bylaws a thousand times, but this law isn't left to interpretation like others. He _has_ to get married. And if I remember my calendar right, he's not got very much time left," Helion sounds apologetic.

"I was afraid you'd say that," Amren admits. Varian's brow rises in surprise. "So, I've come to you with another idea."

"Oh?"

Amren eyes Helion carefully. Rather than preening under the attention of the woman, the lawyer stands a little straighter, concern flashing in his eyes. Even Helion's scandalous attitude fades away under Amren's challenging looks.

"How hard is it to change a constitutional law?" Amren asks.

Helion grins, fiendish. "How long do I have?"

Amren clicks her teeth while she pretends to think about it. She knows precisely how long Rhysand has to pick a bride and get married, nearly down to the minute.

"About 73 days."

"Not pleasant, but doable." Helion smiles, "What would you have me change?"

"All of it," Amren tells him. "I want you to get rid of the law."

Helion's face turns ashen.

*

Rhys is feeling very nervous.

It's intimate, sharing a bed with the woman he desires—loves. Though they haven't gotten that far yet, Rhys plans on waiting to drop that truth on her lap. Feyre's stressed enough without Rhys adding another pressure to her life. He's worried her enough. Confessions of love can come later.

He decides to channel the nervousness he feels into getting ready for bed. Rhys spends an unnecessary amount of time removing his jacket and folding it up meticulously, draping it over one of Feyre's armchairs. He feels self-conscious in her space, sitting on her bed and removing his shoes. Like an invader.

It's silly, really. This isn't the first time he's ever spent the night with a woman, and yet, it's the first night he's getting to spend with Feyre.

He could just climb into the bed and wait for her, but that seems... presumptive.

"Rhys," Feyre calls from the bathroom, and the man starts, jumps off of the bed like he's been caught doing something wrong. Feyre makes a face at him, but then she smiles.

Rhys notices what she's wearing. "You've not made very much progress."

Feyre pouts prettily at him. When she shrugs her shoulders, it brings his eyes back down to the neckline of her dress. Instantly, he looks back up at her face. That dress was going to get him into trouble, too. Hell, most about Feyre was going to get him into trouble.

He was going to give up his kingdom, his title, for her.

Helion delivered the news before dinner, of course. Rhys hadn't had the heart to tell Amren, yet, was still processing it himself, and then Feyre distracted him with that dress she still wears. Then Amarantha went and ruined his perfectly good flirting.

"I can't reach the zipper," Feyre laments. "I was going to try and shimmy out of it, but I think now I'm more stuck."

Rhys chuckles. She's worth it. "Let me help you."

Feyre watches him approach and bites her lip. It's tough for Rhys to concentrate when she does that. As he draws near, she turns around to give him access to the zipper on the back of her dress.

Rhys feels like a teenager, hands shaking as he reaches for her zipper. Gone is the confidence, the false bravado; Rhys is powerless when it comes to Feyre, but he finds that he likes that. He trusts her with his heart.

He savors the time it takes to unzip her, presses a lingering kiss to the nape of her neck as he tugs the zipper. Another kiss to the crook of her neck makes Feyre hum pleasantly. That's a sound Rhys could get very, very used to hearing.

The moment is short. The zipper undone completely; Rhys trails the back of his knuckle up the exposed skin. It's a teasing touch that he partners with a kiss to her bare shoulders. The skin there is freckled, kissed by the sun. Feyre shivers, turning around to face him.

Her eyes drop back to his lips as she licks her own, and Rhys's mind goes wild with anticipation.

Feyre flashes the king an evil smile, "Be right back."

She closes the door in his face.

*

Amarantha gives up the fight around the time they reach the airport. Azriel is both thankful and suspicious of her silence; he oversees her from the seat opposite her, prepared for anything.

The woman flashes him a smile as they drive directly for the jet. It's excessive, but an order is an order. Azriel and Cassian both agreed that a private jet from one private airport to the next was the best call. Nowhere for Amarantha to sneak off to; nowhere for her to hide.

"There's no getting out of the marriage," the former countess tells Azriel. "If he picks that girl, he'll lose everything. I found the documents in his rooms."

Azriel resists the temptation to snap at her. Of course, the woman snuck her way into Rhys's rooms. Nuala told him as much, but it irritates him that this woman would rub it in his face.

"It seemed only fair," she muses as Azriel guides her onto the airplane, "to inform the country that the king would be abandoning his people. For some American peasant girl."

Azriel pauses, and Amarantha's smile is pleased.

"What did you do?" Azriel growls.

She shrugs, claims a seat by the inset television screen. "Mind if I watch the news?"

*

The next morning, Mor knows precisely where she'll find her cousin. The twins were more than willing to tell her with secret smiles and thinly veiled giggles that the Duchess would not find the king in his suite that morning, that he was absent for his morning tea. They also recounted the rumors that the king was seen walking the halls late last night after Amarantha was removed from the castle.

That he'd been headed in the direction of a particular tutor's rooms.

So, Mor set off in the direction of Feyre's rooms. The news broke that morning, a vile (and entirely true) rumor that the King of Prythian was going to renounce his throne for love. Amren was furious. The suitors were resigned. And Rhys was, as always, missing.

Morrigan knows that she should knock first before entering, but Mor isn't very polite about these kinds of things. Rhys tells her it's because she has no boundaries.

"Alright!" The blonde calls as she turns the doorknob. She places one hand over her eyes. Just in case. "I'm coming in! Rhysand cover the family jewels, please. I don't want to see them."

"Then you should knock, Morrigan," Rhys says dry and unamused. "This is why you flunked out of etiquette school."

Mor scoffs, rolls her eyes even though Rhys can't see it with her hand in the way. "No, I failed because I kept getting distracted watching Elsie sway around in those ridiculous skirts. Then I failed because I was having my gay crisis."

Morrigan sighs dreamily at the memory. "Damn. Elsie was so hot."

Feyre's light giggles overlap Rhys's groan of annoyance, but Morrigan can't see either of their amused expressions through the veil of her fingers.

"What about me?" The tutor asks through her laughter. "Should I cover my jewels?"

"Darling, I'd like to see all your jewels," Rhys purrs, and Mor scrunches up her nose. Gross.

"After squeezing you into Vassa's dress last night, I think we've all seen your jewels, Feyre," Mor quips. Feyre laughs again brightly.

"Okay! On the count of three, I'm looking," The king's cousin warns. " _One_ , two... three!"

She drops her hand with a flourish only to find Rhys sprawled across Feyre's fluffy comforter in his rumpled dinner clothes. The owner of the bed is perched beside him, dressed in a paint-splattered sweatshirt and armed with her sketchbook.

"Oh." Mor can hear the surprise in her voice.

Feyre grins mischievously. "Thought you'd find us a little more compromised?"

"Kind of," the Duchess admits. She was nearly positive.

"His Majesty is saving his virtue," Feyre tells her, teasing the man beside her with complete affection.

Rhys pouts at the woman, but his smile comes easily when Feyre reaches out and smooths back his hair in a natural, affectionate gesture that makes even Mor feel warm and fuzzy.

"Little late for that, isn't it?" Mor asks.

"Shut up, Mor, and tell us what you're doing here." Rhys grumbles.

An eyebrow raises. "Shut up or explain? I can't do both, Cousin."

The look on the king's face says it all: _I hate you._

Morrigan grins: _you do not._

"What's up, Mor?" Feyre intercedes before the cousins can get into it. Clever girl.

"I need to borrow you," she explains. "It's important."

"Oh," Feyre furrows her brow in thought. Then shrugs. "I'll go get dressed."

The tutor hops out of bed and heads for the bathroom. She's wearing some rather enticingly short pajama bottoms, and Mor isn't ashamed to admit she takes a moment to admire her legs as the blonde claims Feyre's seat.

Rhys flicks her nose, and the Duchess scowls at her king with a few unkind words.

"Stop staring," Rhys says more than a little put out. Mor laughs at his jealousy; it's very unlike Rhys to be jealous.

"Can't help it," Mor explains. "Feyre's hot, and she doesn't even know it, which just makes her—hotter."

"She's beautiful," Rhys counters softly, and when Morrigan looks at his face, the expression she finds is one she's never seen him make before.

Mor has nothing smart to say to that.

*

Rhys was in trouble, but he didn't know why—yet.

"Amren is looking for you. Fair warning: she's got that look in her eye again," his cousin informed him earlier, linking arms with Feyre and shooting Rhys a wink.

So, the king gathered his belongings and abandoned Feyre's rooms; they didn't hold nearly as much appeal without their occupant in them.

A small smile touches his face, as Rhys recalls their evening.

He'd been struck with complete fondness when Feyre emerged from the bathroom dressed in a ratty sweatshirt and sleep shorts. The small smile she flashed him melted his heart, and when Feyre hopped into bed, Rhys crawled after her, a moth to a flame.

They settled into bed, curled around one another, and ready for sleep. Then Feyre pressed a heavy kiss to his neck. Another. It set his body on fire, her touch, released the softest groan from his throat. She'd giggled, repeated the action with similar success.

"Feyre. Darling." Rhys interrupted her. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but I'm trying to be a gentleman here, so I need you to stop being so tempting."

A soft laugh. Another kiss. The object of his desire was apparently not tired anymore.

"Are you sure?" Feyre's voice was husky in the dark. It did things to him.

The king groaned. "No." A sigh. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Oh." There was no mistaking Feyre's disappointment. "Okay."

"There'll be time for that later," Rhys smiled, turning to cup her face in his hands. He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips in the dark and whispered into the skin of her neck, "I'm going to court you properly first. Besides, I'm much too tired to do all the things I've got planned for you."

Feyre shivered, teased, "Old man."

He only has a few years on her, but it seems she's inclined to hold it against him. Rhys pressed his smile into her shoulder. "Cruel creature."

"What are you smiling about?" Amren hisses, and the grin on king's face vanishes.

"I take it Helion gave you the good news?" Rhys wishes daytime drinking was more acceptable. He thinks he could use a glass for this conversation.

"Yes. Thanks for the heads up by the way," Amren growls, glaring at him.

Rhys has nothing to say to that, so he claims his seat behind the desk.

"Have you seen the news this morning?" Amren asks him, and the king sighs.

"No, I'm afraid I slept in," he tells Amren conversationally. "I missed my morning tea and everything. Anything interesting?"

His Head of Staff snorts in a way that tells the king he's not going to like whatever comes next. Amren picks the remote to his television up and turns on the news.

The flashing banner scrolling at the bottom of the screen immediately catches his attention.

_Breaking News: His Royal Majesty, King Rhysand Velaris Plans Abdication—for love._

"Fuck."

Amren's silver eyes flash at him. "Yes. That's what got you into this mess in the first place, I'd say."

"Excuse me?"

"Where were you last night?" Amren's tone tells the king that she knows exactly where he was.

"If you know the answer to something, why ask, dear Amren?" Rhys grumbles, attempting to listen to the news. A leak. From the Castle of Dreams. Amren would burn this place to the ground to find out who betrayed them.

"This," Amren waves towards the screen, "was Amarantha's doing. She broke into your rooms, and we weren't able to find out what she took until it was too late."

"So, what you're saying is my security sucks, and now we have a scandal—except it's not really a scandal, is it?" Rhys challenges. "Because I am giving up my title, and it is for love."

"You will do no such thing," Amren hisses. The king sits up a little straighter in his seat.

"Excuse me?" Rhys must have heard her wrong. They've already gotten their answer from Helion, one of the best lawyers in the country. To stay king, he has to get married by the Spring, but he's not about to marry anyone who isn't Feyre.

"No," the king orders when he realizes what Amren's planned.


	10. PART TEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry about the wait for this one! I was trying to work out how I wanted to wrap things up, and then I started writing and the whole thing is a lot longer than I expected. Here is Part Ten. It is not the finale as I expected. I’ve got about 3k written for that, and then I plan to make a nice fluffy epilogue for all of you to enjoy! (Fair warning that this update is over 6k.)

**PART TEN**

“What is going on?” Feyre asks when she enters the room, and Saoirse can’t help but roll her eyes at her teacher.

It’s obvious what they’re doing. They’re scheming.

“You’ve created quite the mess for yourself, dearie,” Vassa directs to the tutor. “We’ve come to help you fix it.”

“Mess? What mess?” Feyre asks. Saoirse thinks that means Feyre must not have checked the news yet. The princess wonders just how often Feyre ever checks the news now that she’s thinking about it. That’ll need to change if she’s about to become the next Queen of Prythian.

Amren’s plan. Rhys would marry Feyre, fulfill the law, assuming they could find the proof they needed that the “requirements” for his bride were more traditional practices than statute.

“I’m—what?” Feyre screeches when the Princess of Adriata tells her as much. Cresseida isn’t one for delicacy.

Morrigan goes pale. “You weren’t supposed to tell her that yet. Rhys will be down here at any moment.”

“Rhys—he knows?” Feyre looks pale like she might faint.

“Sit,” Saoirse tells her teacher, tucking a chair behind Feyre’s knees. “And no. Not yet. Amren is telling him, and then he’ll rush down here to console you any moment now.”

Morrigan wiggles her brow at Feyre. “While you and Rhys were busy playing house—”

“Ew.” Saoirse wrinkles her nose.

“—the rest of the castle was dealing with the scandal you two have created,” the princess’s cousin finishes, shooting Saoirse an exasperated look. She can’t help it. The idea of her brother with anyone—ugh.

“What scandal?” Feyre asks, quiet.

“That horrid woman from Haybin leaked news that His Majesty is going to give up his crown—for you,” Princess Vassa explains.

Saoirse sighs, correcting her. “Hybern. It’s Hybern.”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Vassa looks to Mor for support. The Duchess gives her a fond nod as if to say, _Of course, love._

“Me?”

“They don’t know it’s you,” Mor tells her. “Cauldron knows how.”

Feyre relaxes slightly. Then realizes her next problem, “So, I’m—marrying Rhys?”

“I’m certainly not,” Vassa tells the room, and Saoirse grins. She likes Vassa and hopes that the Princess of Vallahan will stick around for a while. The look Mor gives Vassa is promising.

“I should like my husband to ogle me the way His Majesty did you last night in that sinful dress,” Cresseida muses, and Feyre flushes bright red. “So, count me out as well.”

All eyes turn to Ianthe, who stands by a window with her hands on her hips.

The blonde is impetuous. “Well, I certainly will if you don’t want to.”

“By the Mother!” Vassa cries, blue eyes burning with her impatience, “You dosser! If you’re not going to be any help, go on and get the bloody hell out of ‘ere!”

Ianthe pales at the attack. Princess Vassa’s accent is so thick with her irritation that even Saoirse almost doesn’t understand her. Put in her place, Ianthe leaves the room. The women at the table gape at Vassa.

Then out of nowhere, Mor breaks into a burst of brilliant, happy laughter; it’s been a long time since Saoirse heard her cousin sound so joyful. It’s contagious; Saoirse grins widely, too.

The Duchess waltzes around the table towards Vassa, oblivious to their audience. The Princess’s smile is sheepish, apologetic. Mor takes the woman’s face in her hands and pins a kiss on her lips, though, and Vassa’s smile turns very, very pleased.

“I’ve been waiting for ages for someone to do that,” Morrigan declares, pressing another kiss to the princess’s lips. “Ianthe has had that coming _forever_.”

*

“This is not what I agreed to,” Rhys snarls at his Head of Staff. The king thinks he should like to fire her, but honestly, if he did that, Rhys would be in even more trouble. He’s hardly able to run his own life, much less a whole bloody castle, monarchy.

“No, you agreed to give up your country,” Amren glares at him in disapproval. “For a _girl._ ”

“Hey!” Rhys defends himself. “You say that like it’s just some broad I picked up off the street, but it’s not. It’s—Feyre. And try and deny it all you would, but you love her.”

“Well, I certainly don’t love what she’s doing to the monarchy right now,” Amren hisses, gesturing towards the television. To make her point, she flips the channel. It’s another new station, exclaiming over the King’s abdication.

“Fuck,” Rhys swears. “But none of this is her fault! It’s mine for not throwing that bitch out on the street the second she showed her face.”

“I’ll give you that,” Amren agrees. Rhys scoffs.

“Gee, thanks,” the king says. “But that still doesn’t mean I’m going to marry Feyre. We’re—It’s new. I’ve barely had a moment to kiss her properly.”

Amren snorts, telling him she doesn’t believe him for a second.

“You have to marry someone,” Amren tells him. She checks her phone. “Or are you really going to give up your throne? Feyre’s already agreed to it.”

“Yes, I’ve made up my mind—wait, what?”

Amren’s smile is sharp, “Feyre told the other ladies that she’d do it. Marry you.”

*

Feyre’s brain is still trying to catch up with what’s going on. Books of varying sizes and shapes lay all over the giant table, and her charge wears a look of such determination that it’s unnerving her.

“So, what exactly is it we’re doing?”

The rest of the group looks up from their books to Feyre, while Vassa eyes her counterpart.

“Morrigan,” she chides in that lilting accent. Mor flushes. Feyre doesn’t think she’s ever heard someone call Mor by her full name, at least not without the Duchess objecting. “You were supposed to fill her in on the way over.”

“Without spoiling the marriage business?” Mor half shouts in the quiet space. “How on earth was I supposed to do that?”

“Just how bad is it?” Feyre asks, uncertain, and feeling no small amount of guilt. “The news? Are they going after Rhys?”

“The country is having quite the shock,” Princess Cresseida tells the tutor from her place across the table. “They love their king very much, and the news that he plans to step down has come out of nowhere for them. They’re confused and likely feeling a little abandoned.”

Feyre feels herself flush; this is her fault. Cresseida was probably the only suitor here with a real chance of becoming queen. She must be distraught with Feyre.

The woman in question must sense her train of thought. Princess Cresseida glances up at the tutor with thinly-veiled interest before explaining. “If I’m not going to be the queen, then I should like to see someone else worthy take the title. That’s you, so stop looking at me like you stole my favorite doll.”

The Princess of Adriata promptly sticks her nose back into her thick tome. End of discussion.

“What?” Feyre asks, confusion lining her face.

Saoirse rolls her eyes. “Feyre, we’re trying to figure out how to break the law. Or, rather, prove such a law doesn’t exist.”

“As your teacher, I feel inclined to tell you not to do that,” Feyre drawls, find exasperation colors her words. “As your friend, I’m very curious as to which law we’re breaking.”

Saoirse’s smile is sharp. “The one where it says the king of Velaris has to marry a certain type of suitor.”

“Oh,” Feyre breathes.

“But here’s the thing,” Cresseida interrupts. “I don’t actually see where the law lists any guidelines for the suitors. Like—the king could just yank anybody off of the street, marry them, and call it a day.”

“Really?” Feyre feels the hope flaring in her chest, which is weird because Feyre didn’t think she wanted to get married. Even to Rhys.

“Then what the hell are we doing?” Vassa asks, roguish. Mor rolls her eyes, but the gesture is fond.

“I suppose, we’re going to plan a wedding,” Feyre says, awe in her voice.

“Excellent,” Cresseida drawls, “finally something that I’ll enjoy.”

*

Helion thinks this is going to be a bizarre meeting. It’s unofficial and informal, and he’s invited. Well, sort of. The attractive and scary small woman showed up at his office a few hours ago, and all but kidnapped him, dragged him up the mountain to the Castle of Dreams.

He liked how feisty she was. A shame that it appeared she was taken.

“Right,” an older man with an obvious toupee starts the meeting. He’s got a plate piled with appetizers, clearly enjoying the hospitality of the castle. “We’re all here. So, tell us, Your Majesty, what’s the urgent matter at hand?”

His voice is mocking, telling Helion as well as the king that he’s checked the news this morning. Lord Beron knows precisely what is going on, but he wants to enjoy making the king sweat a little.

“Yes,” King Rhysand purrs. “Thank you so much for taking the time away from your vacation.”

The men in this sitting room would never believe Helion if he told them the story of the time Rhys got so drunk in Cesere that he convinced Helion to help him sneak away from his security detail. The two of them spent the entire evening sneaking around the little city by the sea, hiding from some of the world’s most skilled bodyguards.

They only got caught because Rhys tried to talk someone out of their jacket. He’d wanted it so badly he tried to leverage being the next King of Prythian, ordered the man to surrender the garment; they didn’t believe him until the scary military types showed up and lectured the young men for fleeing.

Ah, the university days. How Helion missed them.

Amren interrupts before the king can say something stupid. Helion is a little disappointed. “We’re here to discuss the laws pertaining to His Majesty’s imminent marriage.”

Lord Beron’s smile is sharp, “Ah, yes. We’re looking forward to meeting your future bride. A commoner! How… original.”

“Might I remind you, _Lord_ Beron,” Rhys’s violet eyes flare with anger, “that when you address me, it should be as Your Majesty. Until further notice.”

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty,” the man sneers, “until further notice.”

Helion’s having a hard time figuring out if the king is or isn’t abdicating. The news and Rhysand’s behavior tells one story, and the feisty woman with the sharp haircut says another.

“I should like to return to my family in time for dinner,” the Lady Miryam interrupts with a kind smile. Based on the way Rhysand returns the look, Helion can tell that the king likes this council member. “Tell us, Your Majesty, are you planning an abdication? Like the papers suggest?”

The Head of Staff for His Majesty speaks before he can. Helion thinks that's curious of them. “King Rhysand wishes to address the Council’s requirements for his bride and their legitimacy.”

Lord Beron and the other men scoff, but Lady Miryam looks intrigued, “Tell us more.”

*

“Rhys!” Feyre hisses flying down the stairs.

When Mor disappeared with a lame excuse of needing to make a call, Feyre did not expect that call to be for a seamstress. Imagine, Feyre’s surprise and horror when her future cousin-in-law returned with a fleet of dresses in precisely Feyre’s size.

Wedding dresses. The sight of all of the white lace and tulle had Feyre’s heart racing in a panic. The moment the ladies turned their backs on her, Feyre bolted.

“Rhys!” She calls again at the sight of a familiar head of dark hair. “Wait for just a second!”

The king looks up at the sound of his name, and his eyes light up at the sight of Feyre. When he realizes what she’s wearing, Rhys slaps a hand over his eyes and turns away from her. Feyre snorts, but she’s too impatient to pick on him properly for his superstitions.

“This isn’t my dress,” Feyre huffs. “Now, turn around before I stomp on your foot.”

“I thought we had a year or two until you turned against me, darling,” Rhys purrs, but he drops his fingers away from his face. Those violet eyes assess her in a way that makes her skin break out in goosebumps.

“You look lovely,” he whispers. “If this isn’t the one, then I can’t wait to see what you’ve picked.”

“I haven’t picked. Not yet,” Feyre can’t help but smile; he looks so happy. The expression must not reach her eyes, though; the king’s brow wrinkles, and he takes her shoulders in his hands.

“Feyre, I’m sorry for not seeking you out right away,” he apologizes with a frown. “I should have come to you immediately and talked it over with you myself. Amren surprised me with the Council, though, and Mor said–”

Feyre pecks his lips with her own, “It’s okay. You’re a very busy king, I get it.”

His smile is weak, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I forgive you for letting your sister engage us,” Feyre tells him with a smirk, and Rhys breaks out into a bitter laugh.

“Leave it to Saoirse to find a way to get what she wants,” Rhys mutters, but then he’s frowning again. “So, what’s got you so worried, love?”

Love. Feyre knows it’s just an expression, but it makes her heart flip. The feeling doesn’t last when she remembers her cold feet, the sense of terror that ripped through her when the ladies placed her on a pedestal in front of a bunch of gilded mirrors—a wedding dress. Feyre was wearing a wedding dress because she was getting married.

To Rhys.

“I’m freaking out,” she tells him, and the wrinkles in Rhys’s forehead deepen. “I–It’s just–”

“It’s okay to say it, Feyre,” Rhys tells her, sweeping her hair off of her shoulder, running it through his fingers. “I know this isn’t what you wanted–what either of us wanted.”

“I don’t want to get married,” she says, at last, unable to meet his eye.

Rhys’s face falls further; his expression is grim. “No?”

He says it like he expected as much, asked her to tell him as much, but he’s still disappointed. Feyre grabs his chin with two fingers to make the king look her in the eye.

“I mean, I do—eventually,” she says, and she presses a kiss to his lips. Quick and chaste and a promise. It seems like a pretty big promise, and one made very early, but she thinks it’s true. “But not like this. I want to get married because it’s what we want, because we’re ready—not because the country demands it of us.”

Rhys sighs, tugs her in for another peck on the lips. “Me, too. Amren doesn’t listen. I’m okay giving up my throne. It’s—fine.”

Feyre can tell it isn’t. Not really. But he’ll do it for her. For them. Her heart squeezes. She should be willing to sacrifice as much. Besides, she—loves him. They’ll get married eventually anyway.

“Shit,” she says. “We’re getting married, aren’t we?”

Rhys looks confused.

“I mean, there’s no way I can let you do that, Rhys,” Feyre tells him. “If you’re willing to give up everything for me, why can’t I do the same?”

“Feyre—“

“If you can convince the council,” Feyre tells him. It’s weird—that agreeing to marry someone she loves would make her feel so conflicted, so sad. “I’ll do it. I’ll marry you.”

His eyes sparkle, but the look is a little sardonic. “I thank you for your sacrifice.”

She slaps his arm. “Shut up. Or I’m going to leave you.”

Rhys’s laugh is loud and free. She smiles as the sound echoes off the marble floors in the grand room. Then he takes her by the elbow, leading her down the hall and glancing over his shoulder like he’s afraid Amren is about to come looking for him.

“Where are we going?” Feyre asks, following along.

“There are too many people in my castle,” Rhys complains, and Feyre barks a laugh. “Someone is always watching me.”

“The poor king,” Feyre coos. “He can’t ever get a moment to himself. Such a hard life—“

Feyre's voice breaks when Rhys ducks underneath a tapestry, tugging her along by her arm into the darkness.

“Holy shit!” Feyre exclaims, and Rhys chuckles. “There’s a whole fucking room back here.”

Rhys laughs through his words, “We’ll need to clean up that mouth of yours before we let you out in public.”

“Whatever, you like my mouth,” she snarks. Feyre can feel his hands fall to her waist, but she can’t see his smile in the dark. “I pass this thing like every day, and shit—you mean to tell me there was somewhere to hide from Ianthe all along?”

Rhys’s body presses close to her, and he backs her up. She forgets the next thing she’s going to say as her back presses against the cold wall. Rhys’s nose drags along her cheek.

“There are a few spots like this,” he tells her, voice low and hoarse. It makes Feyre’s blood heat. “I use them when I need an escape. I’ve taught Saoirse about them—and I think Amren knows because she knows everything, but they’re a Velaris Family secret. Not even Mor knows. Because she’d use them for hunting me down.”

“And now I know,” Feyre’s voice is whisper-quiet.

“Now you know,” Rhys echoes. The reason for his telling her floats in the air between them. Feyre and Rhys are getting married; she’s Velaris now.

He presses his lips to hers. Feyre clutches at his shoulders, arching into his embrace, and opening for him. She moans when his tongue sweeps into her mouth, and Feyre’s hands start to wander to the buttons on his shirt, plucking the top few free so that she can run her hands along his collarbones.

Rhys’s hands linger on the zipper to the wedding dress she wears, and her heart races in her chest. Feyre can tell he’s contemplating taking the thing off, and she’s very inclined to let him. Rhys sighs, breaking the kiss at last; his hands fall from her back.

“The Council should be reconvening any moment,” Rhys tells her with a pout. Feyre kisses the look away. He smiles. “This is one meeting I should probably be on time for.”

“They won’t know what to do with themselves,” Feyre tells him, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Marriage is already changing you. What will they think when you stop ghosting the royal events?”

Rhys grins as he fixes his buttons. “Hey, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he tells her. “I’ll have a Queen to fill in for me. It’ll make sneaking away so much easier.”

Feyre’s heart stutters. She’d be Queen. Rhys sees right through her shock.

“I’ll be Queen?” she asks.

Rhys tugs her chin upwards to kiss her again. “You’ll be my equal in every way.”

“So,” Feyre beings with a teasing glint in her eye, “you’re telling me that if I decide to ghost on public outings, you’ll fill in for me?”

Rhys chuckles, “It’ll be my honor.”

*

Amren goes to the library, away from the stuffy council members and the king’s nervous energy. The lawyer Helion sends her a wicked smile, and she shoots the shameless flirt the most hateful look she can muster. Amren is not interested.

The bodyguard from Adriata materializes at her side. She senses him approach more than he announces himself, and Amren thinks she likes it that way. Varian knows when and how to be quiet, and he doesn’t always feel the need to fill the silence with unnecessary words.

“You’re very stressed,” he says after a while, and Amren takes back all of her internal compliments for him.

“Your observation skills are astounding,” Amren says in a sharp tone. The man only grins.

“It’s just that,” Varian closes the distance between them, and Amren has to just her chin out with the way he towers over her, “if you’re looking to let go some of that stress… I have a few ideas.”

The mischievous glint in his eyes tells Amren exactly what ideas he’s referring to. She surprises herself when she says, “Tell me a few.”

*

Rhys leaves the alcove feeling a little lighter than before. After checking the hallway both ways, he holds the tapestry to the side for Feyre and the voluminous dress she wears.

 _Feyre is trying on wedding dresses_.

Those grey eyes he loves so much sparkle with mirth as Rhys allows the tapestry to fall back into place, “So, you’re telling me we could’ve been hiding back there and making out all along, and you didn’t tell me?”

A thrill runs through Rhys, and he grins. “You would’ve made out with me underneath a tapestry?”

“Uh, Yeah?” She tells him like it's super obvious.

Rhys chuckles, throwing an arm over her shoulder and leading her back towards the main hall. He needs to go see the Council, hear their verdict if they have one, but Rhys is loath to let go of Feyre. He just wants some time alone with her, without worries.

“Why didn’t I know this before?” He asks as they begin to part. Rhys hangs onto her fingers as Feyre tries to walk in the opposite direction, and Feyre smiles softly at him, pausing in her retreat.

She closes the distance between them, eyes locked on his. Rhys is helpless under her gaze as Feyre lifts onto her tiptoes and presses another kiss to his lips. It’s as if now that they’ve started kissing, they can’t stop. Rhys loves it.

“Because you didn’t ask,” Feyre tells him, voice low, and then she’s a whirl of white fabric as she takes off up the grand stairs. In the distance, Rhys can hear his cousin calling out for her. They’ve both been away from their duties for too long.

*

It seems to take hours, but eventually, the suitors and dressmakers pick out a wedding dress for Feyre. She likes it, but she feels too detached from the situation to make a very educated decision. It doesn’t feel like she’s planning her own wedding; it feels like Feyre is just the sit-in for someone else who happens to be getting married to Rhys.

She can’t believe it's been less than 24 hours since she and Rhys confessed their feelings for each other. This is all happening so quickly. And Feyre was the type of girl that used to think she’d never get married, that she wasn’t cut out for that kind of life. What a plot twist.

“The Council is delaying their official decision,” Rhys complains to her as he shucks off his shoes. He’d come to her room as soon as Amren freed him from her grasp, and Feyre was very happy to find him at her door after dinner. “Both Miryam and Helion say we’re in the clear, however. Those old bastards can’t fight the fact that who I marry isn’t stipulated by law–just that I get married.”

“That’s good,” she tells him, sliding into her bed and braiding her hair back from her face.

Feyre is exhausted; she threw on the first giant shirt she could find, eager to get to bed. It’s ratty and paint-stained, but Rhys doesn’t appear to mind very much. He appraises her, and even though Feyre doesn’t feel very sexy in her choice of clothes, the look in the king’s eye has her pulse spiking.

“Sorry for the lack of sexy pajamas,” Feyre says, feeling a little shy.

Rhys chuckles. “I find this look very sexy,” he tells her, voice deep and low. “My only complaint is that it appears as if you’re wearing another man’s shirt. An old lover, perhaps?”

Feyre bites her lip, but she feels a thrill at the jealous tone Rhys’s voice has taken. “No, not a lover’s. I just like to sleep in large shirts.”

A shy smile. “Bring me one of yours, and I’ll wear it if it’ll soothe your male jealousy.”

“Now I like the sound of that,” Rhys says as they snuggle under the covers. Feyre twists in his arms to face him, seeking his lips in the dark. On instinct, they find one another and share a long, tired kiss. Rhys sighs, “How can they expect us to get married when I can’t even find the time and energy to properly kiss you, senseless?”

Feyre laughs, “There’ll be time. I don’t mind waiting.”

Rhys nuzzles her face, seeking out another kiss from her. Despite his complaints, Rhys’s kiss turns hot and needy rather quick, and Feyre soon finds herself pinned underneath his broad shoulders, hands in his hair, and a leg hooked on one of his hips.

“Rhys,” she breathes his name as his lips trace patterns along her neck, shoulders.

“I’d like to try something,” Rhys tells her, voice gravelly. She feels how he smiles when Feyre shivers, and she gasps a little when his fingers play at the waistband of her shorts. “If it’s alright with you, darling.”

Feyre whimpers shamelessly, tugging his face down to hers.

“Please,” she asks. Rhys delivers.

*

Saoirse doesn’t know why they make her come to these meetings. It’s not like she’s getting married. No one wanted her input when the Council declared that Rhys had to get married; why do they want it now, when he’s actually getting married to someone he wants to marry?

“Family solidarity,” Mor tells her, and the little princess scowls.

“More like torture,” Saoirse complains. “If I have to watch those two idiots ogle each other for another second, I’m going to perish.”

Mor laughs, bumping her shoulder with Saoirse’s. “You like Feyre, don’t you, though?”

“Yeah,” the princess says without having to think about it.

“And you’d rather Rhys marry her than Ianthe, right?” No one’s seen Ianthe since Vassa scared her off, but that doesn’t mean the terror isn’t lurking around a corner somewhere, waiting for her last shot at the crown.

“Definitely,” Saoirse responds, adamantly. “But I don’t think that says very much. I’d rather Rhys marry Madja if it meant keeping Ianthe out of the family.”

“Thank you for that image,” Rhys whines as he enters the room. Feyre right behind him. “I think it’ll stay with me for the rest of my life.”

Feyre giggles. “Oh, I don't know, Rhys. I think you and Madja would make each other very, very happy. A perfect match.”

“Wicked creature,” the king complains, but he smiles.

“Gross,” Saoirse complains as her tutor takes a seat beside her, and everyone laughs.

“Excellent,” Amren appears out of thin air. Rhys scowls at her, as everyone else jumps. Sneaky woman. “Everyone is here. We can get started.”

“Where’s Azriel?” Mor blurts, “I haven’t seen him in days.”

“He escorted the former Duchess home,” Amren tells them, and Mor goes pale.

“You made Azriel take Amarantha home?” Mor exclaims, “ _Alone?_ ”

“Azriel is pretty tough, Mor,” Saoirse’s brother says. “He’ll be back by tomorrow morning.”

“Can we get to the point?” Princess Saoirse complains. Feyre smiles at her from where she sits beside her. “I’m hungry!”

Amren sighs, “Feyre, I need you to pack your things.”

Saoirse’s brother and his fiance share a surprised look. Feyre smiles slyly, “I didn’t realize you were so eager to get rid of me, Amren.”

The Head of Staff’s lips twitch. “If only it were so easy.”

“Amren,” Rhys warns. Saoirse laughs; she’s never seen her brother’s feathers get ruffled as quickly as they do when it comes to Feyre.

“You are going to fly home,” Amren says, ignoring the king, “to inform your family of your intentions.”

“Oh,” Saoirse watches as her tutors face falls. “That’s all?” Feyre says with worried eyes.

“Wait!” The princess says suddenly, “You mean you haven’t told your sisters _anything?_ About Rhys? About _me?_ ”

“Well, they do know that I work here,” Feyre rolls her eyes at her, but Saoirse is furious. Why wouldn’t her tutor tell her sisters about Saoirse and her family? They’re awesome, and she’s about to marry one of them!

“Sersh,” Feyre reaches over and flicks Saoirse’s nose, much to her dismay. “My family isn’t like yours. They’re not going to be as accepting of the idea of an arranged marriage. They’ll likely flip out.”

“Yeah, like someone else I know,” Rhys gives Saoirse a pointed look, referring back to her reaction when she found out about the suitors. At Feyre’s birthday dinner.

“Regardless,” Amren continues, ever down to business. “Feyre, I need you to make a quick trip of this. Your formal introduction is in a few days, and I’d rather not have to do with backlash, should your family react poorly.”

“There will be backlash,” Feyre tells the group. “They will react poorly.”

“Oh, I wish I could come with you!” Saoirse cries. “I’ve always wanted to go to New York.”

“Me, too,” Rhys laments. “I hate that you have to deal with this on your own. Sadly, the world doesn’t just let kings waltz around wherever they want. There’s always so much bureaucracy involved in international travel.”

“Yes, but the good news is: Feyre isn’t royal yet,” Amren notes. “And you’re an American citizen. So, enjoy flying under the radar. For now.”

“Does this mean you’ve heard back from the Council?” Feyre asks, looking at Rhys.

The king’s smile is optimistic. “We’re planning for both outcomes, but it seems like the best call to tell your sisters either way. I’ve heard your stories. If we don’t give Nesta a proper heads up, she’ll tear down these very walls to get to you.”

Feyre frowns, “That’s what I’m worried about.”

*

Azriel is ready to return home; the former Duchess received her documents revoking her peerage yesterday. Amren asked for the man to remain there for a little while extra because she and the king feared that the woman in question would do something rash upon receipt of the notice.

After receiving the letter, Amarantha tore her mansion apart, screaming bloody murder at anyone who dared to make eye contact with her. Azriel lingered in the shadows; he was staying in their guest cottage. He needed leave, though, to return back home to the chaos unfolding.

Besides, he was hungry, too afraid to eat anything for fear of being poisoned.

“Oh, great,” the redhead purrs when she finds him packing his bags. “You’re still here.”

Azriel grunts in response. He doesn’t trust her, doesn’t believe she won’t try and leverage something against him to get her power back.

“I was hoping you’d send my well wishes to His Majesty,” Amarantha tells him, leaning against the doorframe. She smiles like the cat who caught the canary; it makes Azriel nervous. “And to his lovely bride to be, Feyre Archeron.”

“As you are the person who’s turned their lives upside down,” Azriel says without hiding his malice, “I don’t believe either of them would be interested in hearing from you.”

The former Duchess smiles, but she leaves without saying anything else. It isn’t until he’s checking the news on his phone on the plane ride back to Veritas and the Castle of Dreams that Azriel realizes what Amarantha has done.

*

“Oh, Feyre,” Elain fawns over the news. It’s about Prythian and how the bachelor king was going to abdicate his throne for love, but at the last second, he didn’t have to, thanks to a flaw in the law.

Rhys called her the second he got out of the meeting that morning, a bittersweet conversation for sure. The King of Prythian still had to get married to stay king, but now he gets to marry her. Feyre.

“Don’t you think this is so romantic?” Elain sighs. She’s standing in front of the television, hands clasped together, and it looks as if Feyre’s sister is on the verge of tears.

“A modern-day fairytale,” Nesta drawls from her place at the kitchen table. Feyre’s older sister could care less about some tiny country across the ocean from her. The fact that Feyre has chosen to move to that country makes the story even more unimportant.

Feyre laughs nervously. A sweat breaks across the back of her neck as she remembers what she's come here to do. Rhys’s and Feyre’s life together has been planned meticulously for the next year ahead of them. Feyre’s formal introduction as the King of Prythian’s fiance is in days; Amren couldn’t push the date back. It was a miracle they’d managed to keep her name under wraps for as long as they had.

That was why she was here for a last-minute visit home. Feyre needed to tell her sisters she was getting married–to the King of Prythian.

“Very romantic,” Feyre chokes on the words. It was her fairytale, and her sisters had no idea. Nesta was going to lose it; Elain would probably faint. Feyre didn’t know what she was going to do.

How did one tell their family they were the reason for a constitutional crisis in a country on the other side of the world? That it was their youngest sister, in fact, who’d fallen in love with the king? That their baby sister was dating a king?

God, maybe Feyre was about to pass out.

“Tell us about him, Feyre!” Elain pleads. She flops into her seat beside Feyre on the couch with all the grace of a ballerina. Feyre always kind of hated Elain for that, for her innate, effortless elegance.

The sister beside her was far more a Queen than she’d ever be. Fuck. Queen—Feyre was going to be Queen of Prythian.

“Uh,” Feyre swallows around the knot in her throat. “Well, he’s a good king. Kind. Fair.”

Elain rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

Feyre’s heart flips. Do they already know somehow?

“Elain wants to know if he’s as handsome in person as he is in the news,” Nesta drones from the kitchen table. Her tone pleads for a quick death. “It’s all she’s talked about for days.”

“Yeah, I’d say he’s handsome.” And incredibly sexy. An excellent kisser. With the softest brogue when murmuring to her in bed.

Elain slaps her arm lightly, playfully, but it makes Feyre jump, startling her out of her daydream. It’s only been twenty-four hours since she boarded the plane, but Feyre misses Rhys already.

“You’re holding out on us! I can tell!” Elain insists with a squeal of delight, and Nesta groans from her place in the kitchen.

“Just tell her what she wants to know, Feyre,” Nesta pleads. “Or she’ll never give us peace.”

Feyre spends the next few hours making idle conversation with her sister. Elain is fascinated by the romantic tale, and Feyre grows increasingly uncomfortable with the knowledge that her sister is obsessing over her relationship with Rhys. Are there other people in the country who feel like that? The world? It’s weird.

Nesta eventually puts an end to it, granting Feyre just a little bit of mercy. The Archeron sisters decide to head out into the city to get some food; Feyre’s been dying for some good-tasting and terrible for you street food. Elain giggles, and even Nesta smiles at the cheers of joy Feyre has when she lays her sights on the first vendor.

The cart sells hotdogs, and Feyre orders more food than she can physically carry. The sisters cart the food to a nearby park and pick at the food.

“Fuck,” Feyre swears, “I’ve missed New York.”

Elain laughs, but Nesta’s the one to say, “You could always come back.”

Feyre swallows her too big bite of food, “Why would I do that? I like Prythian.”

“Because,” Nesta says like it's obvious, “this is your home, Feyre. It’s where your family and friends live. You’ve been gone long enough. It’s time to come back from your soul-searching.”

Feyre figured now was as good a time as any to spill her guts. Nesta was going to nag her all the way to the airport about moving home; they might as well fight about the real issue at hand: Feyre marrying the king of another country.

“Nes, actually, I’ve got something to tell you,” Feyre begins. “Both of you actually, uh, this is kind of funny–”

“Excuse me?” A strange woman says, interrupting Feyre’s admission. Feyre’s never seen this lady before in her life. She frowns, but horror strikes her through the heart at the stranger’s next words. “Are you Feyre Archeron? _The_ Feyre Archeron?”

“What does it matter to you?” Nesta snaps, always chomping at the bit.

Oh no. Feyre begins to panic.

“Oh my god! It is you!” The woman bounces on her toes. “This is incredible! I have so many questions! Can I take a picture with you?”

Other people start to notice the scene the woman is causing. Feyre suddenly doesn’t want her hotdog anymore. “Uh, actually, I need to get going. Maybe another time?”

“Oh, _please?_ ” The woman begs. Nesta bristles when the lady reaches for Feyre’s arm as she tries to escape. Others are watching more closely, and she sees the moment when they realize who she is. “It’s not every day you get to meet a future Queen!”

“A what!?” Nesta snaps, eyes blazing when they turn on Feyre. Elain looks like a ghost.

Feyre’s heart races. “I’m sorry,” she says, tugging her arm free. “You’ve got the wrong person. I don’t know who Feyre is, and I’m not–”

Another person aims their phone towards the Archeron sisters, “This definitely looks like you!”

“Isn’t this you on a sleigh ride with the king?” Another woman asks.

Fuck. Feyre’s going to be in so much trouble with Amren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What scenes do you feel are missing? Other things you'd like to see after the main story? I very much have a few drabble ideas in mind, but I'd like to hear what you think!


	11. PART ELEVEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! Yeah, I have no excuses. My brain turned off for this one. It happens sometimes… Anyway, this chapter will move us along a bit. I was going to write more for it, but it’s already at about 5k, which is typically where I try to stop myself for the sake of editing and remaining sane at the same time. I’ll try not to make you guys wait so long for the next one! <3

Lady Morrigan finds her girlfriend in her suite. It seems maybe a little early in the game to call Princess Vassa her girlfriend, but the way that the fiery redhead smiles when she catches sight of Mor makes it seem like the right call. Vassa rises from her seat in the window and catches Morrigan’s lips with hers before the Duchess can get any words out.

Mor smiles into the kiss, threading her fingers into Vassa’s curls. She’ll fuss at Mor later for messing up her hair, but Mor’s willing to take the scolding to feel the soft silk run through her fingers.

“What was that for?” Mor asks breathlessly. She’s grinning like a fiend. Vassa tucks a lock of her blonde hair behind one ear and winks in a way that makes Mor’s heart skip a beat.

“Cause,” her girlfriend tells her in that lilting voice. “Seemed like as good a way as any to say hello.”

“You should tell me hello more often,” Mor tells Vassa, pressing her lips against the other woman’s. “All of the time, really. Can we say hello again?”

Vassa’s laugh is happy. Then those blue eyes give her a scrutinizing look. “What brings my very busy girlfriend to come to see me? During something of a crisis for her nation and family? You wouldn’t be coming to me to recruit me into some scheme, would you?”

Vassa places her hands on her hips, and Morrigan can’t help but flush, caught in the act of plotting a distraction. “Uh, I can leave you be if you’d like. You don’t have to—”

“Tell me what evil plan you’ve concocted first,” Princess Vassa tells her with a smile. The Princess of Vallahan takes her hands in her own and leads Mor to the couch. “Then, I’ll decide how much of an accessory I wish to be.”

Mor grins, and Vassa eyes her with amusement, waiting patiently for the details. She likes that about her that Vassa doesn’t judge her for her antics; the Princess is just as inclined to cause trouble as she is. Mor is nearly confident that Vassa will be up for what she has planned.

“I’ve come to ask a favor of you,” the Duchess asks her girlfriend. Princess Vassa raises a brow to tell her to continue.

“Uh,” Mor laughs, suddenly feeling a little silly for what she’s about to suggest. “It might be a little early to ask you to partake in political posturing, but I was wondering if you’d help me distract the media, uh, by going on a date with me? Very publicly? While Feyre sneaks back into the country?”

Vassa pretends to consider the proposal carefully, then she grins that rogue smile that always makes Mor’s heart race. “If I’d known this was all it took to get you to take me on a real date, I would’ve leaked Feyre’s name to the press myself!”

Lady Morrigan’s mouth falls open in shock, while Vassa continues to grin; once recovered, she throws her head back and laughs. Princess Vassa bursts into laughter shortly after. They laugh so hard tears come to their eyes, and for the first time in a long while, Mor is very, very happy.

“Is it truly such a scandal for two women to go on a date?” Vassa asks later as they wipe the tears of laughter from their eyes. “I thought your country was more accepting than mine?”

“Oh, it’s way more accepting,” Morrigan reassures her girlfriend. “I’d never play into that. However,” the blonde smiles, “His Majesty’s cousin could start quite the scandal by taking his hot, appropriate suitor on a date in his stead.”

Vassa laughs. “Let’s scandalize everyone then, love. Especially my bigoted father.”

Mor’s smile hurts her face. “Excellent.”

*

The local police help Feyre escape the crowd. The Archeron sisters get a police escort home, and Feyre runs up the flight of stairs to Elain’s and Nesta’s apartment without a backward glance, humiliation giving her speed. At the landing of the apartment, her phone rings; she answers immediately, escaping Nesta’s imminent interrogation. It’s Amren.

“Feyre,” the Head of Staff says in her smooth, annoyed voice. “I hear you’ve attracted some attention.”

“Just a little.” She feels like a scolded child; her voice is small.

“Our ambassador will be there shortly,” Amren tells her impatiently. Feyre can hear shouting in the background, a voice she recognizes easily as her boyfriend’s. “He will escort you to the private airport and see you back home safely. Cassian will meet you at the airport.”

 _Home_. It strikes Feyre then that New York isn’t her home anymore; it’s a bittersweet feeling. Her home is snowy mountain caps and sparkling violet eyes and halls of smooth marble. Her home is Prythian now.

“Feyre!” The king’s voice explodes through the speaker, sounding frantic. Rhys’s voice is filled with no small amount of concern. “Are you alright?”

“Rhys, I’m fine,” Feyre consoles him. She doesn’t need to see him to be able to imagine the distress this news break has caused him. “Some people at the park recognized me is all. Cauldron knows how, but–”

“Cauldron?” Nesta says accusingly. Apparently, Feyre’s oldest sister doesn’t approve of the Prythian phrase.

“That _bitch_ leaked your name,” Rhys hisses. Feyre can hear Amren chastising him in the background for his language. “I could _kill_ her. It’s not out of my power, you know. Azriel would do it if I asked—”

“Rhys!” Feyre exclaims, shocked by his anger. “No harm, no foul. _No_ murdering people.”

Elain goes pale, one delicate hand rests against her mouth in surprise. “Who’s getting murdered?” She asks softly, worried.

“Nobody,” Feyre reassures her gentle-natured sister. “Nobody’s getting murdered. Isn’t that right, Rhys?”

At the nickname, Elain’s eyes go wide, “Rhys? Like–the king, Rhysand?”

Feyre grimaces. Of course, her royalty obsessed sister would know Rhys’s nickname and be able to identify him.

“I don’t know, Feyre,” Rhys tells her through the phone. That brogue she likes so much is back. “I think someone’s going to spend some time in the dungeon when I’m done with—”

Feyre squeaks in protest as her sister, Nesta, yanks the phone from Feyre’s grasp and promptly ends the call without a goodby. Feyre’s heart sinks at the loss of connection to Rhys; it’s ridiculous how badly she misses him already.

She takes to glaring at Nesta instead. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“I don’t care,” the oldest Archeron sister says impassively. “It would seem you have something to tell us.”

Feyre blushes. She has half a mind to play dumb about the whole thing, but Feyre’s definitely been caught red-handed. “Uh, yeah. I guess I do.”

She takes a deep breath, and her sisters watch her, one with impatience and the other with rapture. “So, it’s me. The, _the_ _girl_ who’s caused all the trouble in Prythian. I’m the one that the King of Prythian, that Rhys, is marrying. I’m getting married.”

*

Cassian grins like a fiend as the plane door opens and reveals the next queen of Prythian. He hasn’t had a chance to mock Feyre properly since Rhys told him the good news, but they do have a two-hour drive to the castle ahead of them. That seems like time enough to give his future adopted-sister-in-law hell.

Feyre eyes him warily from the first step of the stairs. “What the fu—“

Cassian’s smile turns sharp. The next Queen of Prythian has precise orders from Amren to watch her language. That must be very, very hard for the New Yorker.

“What are you doing here?” Feyre corrects, her voice filled with scornful. He laughs at her angry expression; She doesn’t mean it.

“Picking up your incapable butt,” he snarks back.

Feyre’s lips tremble with the desire to laugh. Cassian can see that she’s struggling to maintain the facade. “Watch your tongue, bodyguard. You work for me now. I could fire you. Or throw you in this dungeon I’ve heard so much about.”

“You have to know where the dungeon is to banish people to it,” Cassian purrs. Feyre hits the bottom step, and the pair head for the car, Cassian throwing his arm over her small shoulders.

The airport is private, meaning that the media can’t get to them here. Feyre can relax here with him, and Cassian doesn’t have to worry about getting photographed acting “unprofessionally” with the next future queen of his country.

“Besides, who would throw me in the dungeon?” Cassian continues, grabbing the car door for her and helping her inside. “I’m the one who tosses people in the dungeon. I won’t toss myself.”

“I will gladly assist you, Feyre,” Azriel volunteers without remorse. He sits in the front seat, wearing his signature black shades. “Hell, I’ll throw myself in the dungeon if it means I can have some peace and quiet.”

“Gross,” Feyre says with a wrinkled nose.

Cassian laughs, sliding into the seat beside her. “Azzie is just mad because he lost the coin toss for music rights, so I got to listen to the Sound of Music soundtrack on the way over.”

“Poor Azzie,” Feyre coos, leaning her head on Cassian’s shoulder. Together, they pout in the stoic man’s direction. Teasing broody Azriel is one of Cassian’s favorite pastimes.

Azriel groans as he puts the car into gear, pulling away from the plane and back towards the Castle of Velaris. “I’m going to drive all of us off the side of the mountain.”

Their laughter follows them all the way home. Even Azriel smiles after a while, incapable of staying too mad at his family for long.

*

Feyre and the guys return to the palace in the middle of the night. They stopped for dinner along the way, indulging in fast food without anyone there to scold them for it. Dinner has long since passed in the castle. Feyre walks down the silent halls with featherlight steps, afraid to startle to the blanket of silence that’s settled over the palace.

Part of Feyre wants to run down the halls and find Rhys, wherever the silly king is lurking, waiting for her arrival. There’s no way he’s sleeping; she knows him well enough already to know that.

Yet, another part of her just needs some space, a moment to breathe and process everything that’s happened. It’s been a rough week for Feyre, and it’s only going to get more crazy in the next few days.

Was it really only a matter of days ago that Feyre was beating herself up about having feelings for Rhys? Had she really been so upset about a man that was getting married? To someone else?

Now, in some twisted turn of fate, Feyre’s been handed exactly what she wanted. Well, perhaps, not exactly.

Feyre slips back out into the cold with a sigh, entering a perfectly manicured courtyard and hoping the cold will help clear her mind.

The tutor has never been one to seek attention, to desire the spotlight. Feyre hates it really, being the center of attention, but if she marries Rhys, she’ll land herself right in it. Forever. She’ll be a Queen of a foreign country. It still doesn’t seem real.

“It’s not too late,” Azriel’s soft voice interrupts her thoughts. Of course, he’s been silently following her as she paced the halls of the palace. When she marries Rhys and becomes Queen of Prythian, she supposes she’ll have her own bodyguard assigned to her. Royalty doesn’t travel alone.

“Too late for what?” Feyre asks quietly. Their voices carry in the dark, and Azriel takes a seat beside her on the bench. Together, they watch the lights on the fountain twinkle. It’s beautiful.

He smiles, not unkindly, “To escape. It’s not too late, you know. We could still get out of here, find some boring life to live.”

Feyre grins despite her somber mood. “The King’s fiancé runs away with her bodyguard—quite the scandal. Do you think it’ll outshine the one about the Duchess taking one of her king’s suitors to dinner?”

“Probably,” Azriel muses. “The ladies will be so disappointed to be overshadowed by our tragic love story.”

Feyre grins at him until her stoic friend finally cracks a grin. She giggles. “Thanks, I needed a laugh.”

“Anytime,” he tells her.

*

Rhys wakes up the next morning and puts on his very best suit. The council meeting went rather well. Although, those old buzzards were pretty surprised when all of Rhys’s suitors walked in and started arguing in favor of him marrying someone else—a civilian.

But the text was there in faded fine print. Helion said it was just what he needed, and between him and Amren, they got the council to negotiate on what “a suitable candidate” meant. Rhys had official permission—to marry Feyre.

So, why did it feel so awful?

He knew the answer, of course. Rhys never wanted things to go this way. He and Feyre hadn’t even exchanged I love you’s yet, but here they were, getting married. Even if Rhys did want to marry Feyre, which he wholeheartedly did—someday—this was not the way he’d have things unfold.

It was almost like he was back at square one, marrying a suitor against his will.

“You look very nice,” Feyre coos at him from the doorway. The sight of her steals the breath from his lungs, which is just silly. She’s only been gone a few hours, just long enough to get ready for the day ahead of them.

Rhys grins at her, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. Feyre hones in on this right away, frowning and closing the distance between them. She wraps her arms around his neck, and Rhys falls into her embrace easily, like old, familiar lovers. He presses his forehead to hers, wraps her up in his own embrace, and sighs heavily, breathing her in.

“It really is okay, Rhys,” she tells him, and it sounds so genuine. Feyre presses a kiss to his lips. “We’ll make it work.”

He groans, leaning back to look her in the eyes. “How romantic,” Rhys tells her, earning a wry smile.

Feyre bites her lip. “I don’t know how else to help you, Rhys.” Her eyes are sad as she speaks, making his heart clench. “If you don’t want to marry me like this, that’s your call, but I do want to be with you. It’s just— I don’t know if you’ll still be you, the man that I fell in love with if you give up your country for a girl—Even if I am that girl.”

He hates that she’s right. Of course, Rhys being king is integral to who he is. He doesn’t like it, but he can see how surrendering his reign to date her might change Feyre’s opinion of him. Rhys has always put the country first until now— until a pair of blue eyes turned his world upside down.

“You love me?” Rhys says with a smile, choosing to focus on the good, on that little accidental admission.

Feyre stammers, flushing bright red. Rhys kisses her before she can make an excuse, saying, “I love you, too. Very much.”

“Loser,” she tells him, squealing when he pinches her side.

“How did your sisters take it?” Rhys asks at last. He’s sorry he didn’t get to go, to have her back during this critical moment, but Rhys is a sovereign. He can’t traipse the world without going through a lot of red tape.

“Elain nearly fainted,” Feyre says with a smile. “She’s ecstatic. It’s like a fairytale come to life to her. Nesta, though. She…”

Rhys senses her hesitation. They both expected it to be the older sister who took the news poorly. He bumps noses with her in a sign of solidarity. Feyre’s smile turns sad.

“She told me I was an idiot, and that I was making the biggest mistake of my life, and that I’d spend the rest of it wishing I hadn’t married some king I barely knew.”

“Ouch.” Rhys tightens his grip on her. “So, you’re saying we shouldn’t expect her then?”

“No, we definitely should,” Feyre tells him. “She’ll use it as an opportunity to remind me of what a fuck up I am. Besides, she’ll never turn down the chance to travel to Europe. Even to some “Backwater Country”.”

“She called my country what?” Rhys says in outrage. “Well, now she’s banned. So—“

“Rhys,” Feyre giggles, tugging his face back to hers by his collar. She kisses him to soothe the mock outrage. Perhaps the outrage was real. “It’s Nesta. She’s just like that. Welcome to the family, I guess.”

It is bittersweet, those words. Rhys smiles, but he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he tugs Feyre in for a real kiss. They’ll survive this whole forced marriage thing, he thinks. They’ll be okay.

*

Amren can tell the king is nervous, but so is she. The Head of Staff worked tirelessly with that flirtatious lawyer, but they weren’t able to get rid of the law, at least not before Rhysand had to announce his engagement formally. There’s time, she thinks; they could always finagle something after the fact. Yet, by then, it’d look terrible in the public eye to admit you only got engaged to your new lover to keep your throne.

Cameras line the front row of the audience, and Feyre is pale as she eyes them from the side of the stage. She’s never had to stand in front of people like this for publicity. If Amren had it her way, she’d keep Feyre out of the limelight for a while longer, take that time to train her better. To prepare her better.

“It’s alright, darling,” Rhys says, wrapping an arm around his girlfriend and kissing the top of her head.

Feyre’s laugh is too high pitched to be genuine; Amren approaches, eager to try and calm the future Queen’s nerves.

“You aren’t required to say anything,” Amren tells the young woman. Rhys nods encouragingly. “Just let this one here do the talking, and as long as he remains on script,” she gives her king a pointed look. He grins. “There shouldn’t be any reason for you to have to talk.”

“Ah, okay,” Feyre says. She doesn’t sound all that reassured.

“Besides,” Princess Saoirse purrs from where she’s perched on a stool. Her hair has been meticulously pinned up with the daintiest tiara resting on her head. Saoirse is here to support her brother and future sister in law, but it never stops the girl from speaking her mind. “You’re American. They’re all predisposed to hate you. So, if you say something silly, it won’t really matter.”

“Saoirse,” Rhys snaps. “You are being very unhelpful.”

The princess shrugs with a flip of her hair. “Mother always said honesty was the best policy.”

“Mother always said to have one another’s backs, too,” the king growls. “You need to have Feyre’s back now. It’s not entirely her fault that we’re in this situation.”

“No,” Saoirse quips back. “The fault lies solely on you and your ever-changing taste in women.”

“That’s enough,” Amren snaps as Feyre pales. Amarantha was the reason they were here, after all. Because she leaked the news that the king was going to abdicate, sent the country into a panic, and then she revealed Feyre’s name, while the girl was in another country where Amren couldn’t protect her and Rhysand couldn’t get to her.

“You’re on any second now, and I need the leaders of our country to present a united front.” Amren looks back and forth between the two siblings. They glare at one another like children, ignoring Amren’s glare. Feyre does make eye contact with Amren, her eyes wide and skin pale.

“And be on your best behavior.”

*

The King of Prythian, Rhysand Velaris, takes the stage wearing his best smile. He’s wearing the suit Amren ordered him to wear, a perfectly tailored black number; she said he needed to be sure to look his very best for this moment. Apparently, apologizing for scaring everyone and introducing his new unknown bride to his beautiful country, requires his best suit.

Rhys is sure that his country will like Feyre, just as much as he does. They just need to take the time to get to know her. Saoirse is right, the evil little girl; being American does work against Feyre’s favor, but that’s only because Prythian is hesitant of any foreigner, as a small, tight-knit country that takes care of itself.

The audience is silent except for the quiet claps at his arrival. They’re not looking very eager to see him. Inside, the king thinks that he might pass out from the pressure, from the feeling of all these reporters and cameras watching him. The Council hung around, drinking his best wine and eating all of his food just so they could be here to witness his speech.

The change of history, Miryam called it. The king knew she meant well, but he wished she’d stop being supportive.

“Thank you all for coming today,” King Rhysand begins. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Princess Saoirse, standing with her hands folded in front of her, wearing a pleasant smile. He doesn’t need to look at Feyre to know she’s gone paler in front of the audience, that her hands shake as they all watch her so closely.

This was their very first glimpse at the next Queen of Prythian. Queen Feyre, he liked the sound of that.

“We’ve gathered here today to make a significant announcement.” Rhys chuckles, despite his best efforts not to do so. “I suppose you all can gather what that reason is.”

The audience laughs with him. The cameras click a few times to catch a couple of shots of the King’s rare smile. The photos will later show Feyre’s horrified look and Princess Saoirse sending him her best glare. Amren will be furious.

“It’s with great pleasure that I introduce to you, my beautiful country of Prythian and the rest of the world, the love of my life,” the King of Prythian says, smiling in Feyre’s direction. The woman in question smiles shyly; her grey eyes sparkle with happiness. They could pull this off, he thinks, and they’d still be very happy.

“Prythian, meet Feyre Archeron.”

*

Feyre is definitely going to faint.

She watches Rhys, that Kingly mask in place, introduce her, and then suddenly, all eyes are on her. Feyre’s mind goes blank, and her heart races. Everyone is looking at her, waiting for her to say something; Amren said she wouldn’t need to talk, and yet—

“Feyre came to Prythian early this winter to keep my sister, Princess Saoirse, company during the holidays while fulfilling her duties as tutor to the princess,” the King continues, saving Feyre from making a fool of herself. “Her reason for moving to Prythian was to accept a position as one of the Princess’s tutors, but little did we know that Feyre would end up playing a much bigger role in our lives.”

There’s a long pause. Rhys is an excellent public speaker.

“She saved us,” her boyfriend continues. Feyre sees the moment when the carefully constructed mask starts to slip, and Rhys peeks through to his people. “Feyre came into a broken family and made us whole again. My family and I—as well as all of you, my country, my people—have not been the same since the loss of my parents.

“Feyre helped to heal that wound within us. One day, without warning, Saoirse started to smile again, and my cousin, Duchess Verity, started singing in the halls once more—that horrible of hers echoing at all hours. My best friends were no longer carrying the weight of the world for me, and I, I began to live again.”

Feyre thinks she’s about to cry.

Rhys clears his throat. He’s definitely gone off script now, and there’s no turning back. Those violet eyes Feyre loves so much look to her for support, and Feyre approaches him, drawn to him like a magnet. He smiles sadly, hopefully, as Feyre takes his arm, squeezing it in comfort.

“I’m about to do something foolish,” Rhys whispers to her, pressing a simple kiss to her cheek. “I’m asking you for your forgiveness in advance.”

Feyre nods. She’ll give it to him. Always.

*

Amren sees the exact moment her carefully laid plan comes to fruition. As she expected, the King of Prythian crumbles before their eyes and leaves the man behind the mask: Rhys.

Feyre looks likely to cry any second, and yet, she puts the comfort of her boyfriend first, coming to his side and taking his arm in her hands. It’s against tradition, the public display of affection, but Amren thinks that sometimes change is a good thing. Besides, from a strategic point of view, it’s an excellent way to earn the people’s favor.

Helion and Amren both agreed that it would be much too difficult to amend the laws through traditional methods—at least in a timely manner. The lawyer told her that it wasn’t worth the trouble to return to the matter after Rhys gained traction as the king. A more experienced King would hold more sway with the Council; he could get the rule changed for future generations, but he’d have to get married first and stay king long enough to do so.

Yet, Amren knew there was one other way to persuade those stubborn old fools: their taxpayers.

Standing at her side is Varian. The man glances in her direction and raises his brow when he notices how pleased she looks. This was not the outcome they were hoping for. Amren rolls her eyes at him, but he isn’t afraid of her like others.

“You should smile more often,” he tells her. “The look is good on you.”

“Be silent, Bodyguard,” she snaps, but Amren keeps smiling anyway.

*

“Oh shit,” Mor swears under her breath. Princess Vassa looks at her in question, surprised at her language. The couple stayed back at the castle to watch the speech. Their dinner worked splendidly to give Feyre and Rhys the time they needed to prepare for this speech.

And Rhys was going to ruin it.

“What is it, love?” Vassa asks, looking concerned.

“My idiot cousin is about to throw everyone’s hard work out the window,” Mor tells her girlfriend. Vassa raises her perfectly manicured eyebrows.

“How is he going to do that?” she asks, eyeing the picture on the screen with curiosity. Mor lets lose a series of words that have the woman beside her grinning.

“I’m going to come and live here,” the Princess tells Morrigan. “This country is far more interesting than stuffy old Vallahan.”

*

“As you may or may not know,” Rhys says. Now that he’s made up his mind, his voice is calm. He’s not scared anymore, even if Amren might kill him. “Prythian has an antiquated law that dictates a deadline by which a ruling king must get married. That timeframe is precisely 18 months following their accession.

“For me, that meant 18 months following the unexpected and devastating loss of my parents. Both of them.” How his voice doesn’t crack on the words, Rhys doesn’t know, but he is thankful for that small mercy.

“That deadline just so happens to end this Spring. March 9th, if you’re feeling particular.”!Rhys swallows his grief, and Feyre clutches at his arm, sensing his emotions better than even Rhys can. She just _knows_ him. “That date marks 18 months since the loss of Prythian’s previous rulers.”

The audience is so quiet that he thinks everyone can hear it as his heart breaks for the millionth time. Rhys chances a glance at Saoirse. She’s holding her head high, though, Rhys can see how his sister’s lips tremble with the effort of not crying on national television.

He holds his free arm out, and Princess Saoirse ducks into his side right away, craving her brother’s comfort. This might be cheating at this point, all of these tears, especially if one considers the massive favor he’s about to ask of his country.

“Feyre and I came here today,” Rhys continues his speech, “to announce our betrothal. I won’t lie to you; I considered surrendering my throne if it meant that I got to be with the person I love. However, Feyre made it very clear to me that as King, I don’t get to do selfish things, like run away for love.

“So, some very clever women figured out how to bend the rules in our favor, and I have _obtained_ permission to marry Feyre. As luck would have it, she has been gracious enough to accept the job.” Rhys laughs bitterly.

“Did you catch that? I had to ask permission to marry who I wanted.” Rhys sighs. “But—here’s the thing: I don’t want to marry Feyre. Not like this.”

“Rhys,” Feyre says softly, eyes shining with worry. They’ve discussed this a million times, analyzed every possible outcome, but they didn’t think of this one. This last hurrah.

“I don’t want to marry someone because I _have to marry someone_. Is that how you, my people, would like me to choose my partner? The person who will rule beside me? Influence decisions? Keep me on time for public appearances?”

That one earns a laugh. King Rhysand is notoriously late for everything. His smile is self-deprecating. Then he looks to Feyre, his almost fiance. He never even got to propose to her, on the overlook, in view of the Castle of Dreams. If he got the chance to, that’s how he would have done. Maybe he still can.

He holds her beautiful gaze as he continues.

“Feyre is… Feyre is perfect. She’d make a fine Queen one day, but that day is not today. Not like this.” There’s a collective gasp at the revelation. All of these people thought they were attending the announcement of their King’s engagement. He doesn’t blame them.

“Because I’ve decided to ask a massive favor of the people of Prythian.” Rhys swallows back his nerves; there’s no time for them. Not right now. “Instead of announcing my engagement, an arranged marriage even if it is to the woman I love, I’d like to ask all of you here and at home to aid me in overturning such antiquated laws. Allow your king to get married on his own terms in the appropriate amount of time.”

Rhys pauses. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. Part of him suspected that Amren would jump onto the stage and drag them all away, but the tiny dragon never showed. It seems he’s left on his own.

Feyre shares a look with him. She’s not of the country, not educated in their ways or laws; she doesn’t know how to help. Yet, Rhys can tell she wants to.

Interestingly, it’s Saoirse that comes to their rescue.

“We’d like to call a vote,” she says, voice strong despite the tear stains down her cheeks. “According to law, the members of Prythian’s Grand Council can overturn certain measures—within reason. I believe this counts.”

Feyre grins sharply. Rhys will have his hands full with these two in a cahoots. “Lucky for us, those esteemed individuals are in attendance today.”

Rhys feels a jolt of excitement thrum through him at the sly tone of his girlfriend’s voice. He can’t wait to rule his country with her, even if he’ll need to for a little while. He shares her smile as every eye in the room lands on the Council.

“Indeed, that they are.”


End file.
